


My Kisses Are History

by andathousandyearsmore



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Amatonormativity Is A Social Construct, Angst, BAMF Maria Stark, BAMF Sarah Rogers, Bisexual Peggy Carter, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Christmas Fluff, Dad Steve Rogers, Families of Choice, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, How Do I Tag, Humor, Kid Fic, Love, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Minor Riley/Sam Wilson, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Steve Rogers, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Rated T for language, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Feels, Teenagers, Theatre, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2020-10-01 20:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20400721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andathousandyearsmore/pseuds/andathousandyearsmore
Summary: It’s hard, Steve thinks, trying to parent a 15-year-old mostly by yourself when you’re 35 and a professor on tenure track at a very prestigious university. It’s even harder, he knows, when the mother of said 15-year-old is your closest friend and she lives/teaches at your university’s sister school in London with her girlfriend who’s also a professor.But the hardest thing? The hardest thing is the fact that people at SHIELD know he’s single. They try to set him up with the worst timing in the world; and he’s looking directly in the direction of some of the other professors at SHIELD who take it upon themselves to ask him out or set him up on days when he has to be at his daughter’s school to watch her steal the school musical’s spotlight for two nights in a row. Maybe he would have said yes once or twice, if it weren’t for the fact that he keeps his private life close to his chest and most non-family people have no clue that he has a daughter.It’s how he likes to keep his personal and professional life separate, and if that means that people don’t realize he’s bisexual and possibly having not-so-appropriate thoughts about another professor with the most alluring blue-grey eyes he’s ever seen, so be it.





	1. Screamin’ My Lungs Out For Ya

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot BELIEVE I wrote another stevebucky fic when this was supposed to be vaguely a genfic (since Peggy x Angie and Sam x Riley were supposed to be minor that it was a blink and miss situation). Somehow, a 4500 word fic that was supposed to end at a line of Peggy and Steve laughing after their angsty conversation didn’t end at 4500 words. Hmmm, wonder how that happened? 
> 
> To GiGi and Liam: You win. Again. ;(

By the time he gets home, he sees a rented car parked in front of the garage, which is covered in Christmas lights that are elaborately twinkling at him. Actually, the porch and most of the house itself is covered in Christmas lights. Steve doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the sight; he’s both proud that they all finally managed to agree on a color scheme and sad that he had missed the entire Christmas Light fight. Knowing the people inside, Steve knows that the long-lasting argument of how to decorate the house had to have happened. 

He‘s still smiling at the lights when he fumbles for his keys and opens the door, a task made harder when he only has one free hand thanks to the coffee in his other hand. There’s no point in trying to sneak in and surprise them all with the fact that he’s early—he’s pretty sure that at least one of them has had their eyes on the windows for him. He could almost swear that his family is a family of spies. Steve steps in and locks the door behind him, sighing with relief when he isn’t greeted with a bone crushing hug this year by at least two people/a plate of whipped cream. When he had been greeted with said plate last time, the pain of the plate smashing into his face outweighed any annoyance of the actual prank itself. 

Well, that, and the fact that everyone still jokes that the plate is responsible for the _non-existent bump on his nose, thank you very much, he doesn’t know what you’re talking about_, and it’s quote unquote hideousness. Steve’s annoyed about that too. 

Not that he’s going to dwell on it, because he has his moment of peace. Just him, and his coffee. No plates, papers, students, or pseudo-spy families. Just him, and a moment of peace. 

For a second, he places his coffee on the floor. In _peace_, Steve opens the shoe closet and slides off his shoes, hangs up his coat and stows away his briefcase in the shelf that’s in the closet for that exact purpose. When he closes the closet door, he picks up his coffee from the floor again and catches a whiff of the candle-scented air, that actually might not be a candle’s fault.

Cinnamon is in the air, almost overbearing with how strong he can smell it, but it actually explains why he can hear voices coming from the kitchen. Steve smells the air again—cardamom and gingerbread—and sighs again. He might have missed the Christmas light argument, but he definitely hasn’t missed the holiday spice cookie argument. Since there’s a lot of cinnamon, he’s guessing that Lena is winning. Steve needs to find people who don’t like to argue as a way of showing affection, and that is coming from himself. 

Though if he’s going to be honest, this exactly what happens when his mother, Peggy, Angie, Sam, Riley, and his daughter come together in a room after a year of being apart. Peggy and Angie live in London, Sam and Riley live in D.C., his mother lives in Brooklyn unless it’s summertime (in which case she’s either in Ireland or traveling the world with some unfortunate person she’s hustled into going with her, and he lives twenty minutes from SHIELD University with Lena. But by apart, he means that they haven’t physically been in a room together, because Steve’s pretty sure that everyone calls, texts, or Snapchats Lena because she sure as hell didn’t learn the phrases “bloody fucking hell” or “ná bí ag iarraidh cluain an chacamais a chur orm” from him. He’s also fairly sure that he’s never taught her neither Morse code nor ASL.

Actually, he suspects that his mother taught her ASL, and Sam taught her Morse with Riley. Steve knows that Lena used to always ask him how to communicate in ASL, since she knows that he knows it thanks to his childhood ailments, including bad ears. At some point, she stopped asking and started hesitantly signing to him. It was probably the same point that Steve stopped asking and started proudly signing back, correcting movements and gestures gently whenever he has needed to. In turn, Lena’s trying to teach him Spanish. The key word is trying, since Steve is firm in his belief that him knowing four languages (three spoken, one sign) is pretty decent for someone who isn’t a translator or someone who needs to know languages for work.

Steve’s belief may or may not be stronger than it was before Lena started to teach Spanish to him because he’s really bad at it now. Lena may or may not be frustrated because she keeps telling him that Spanish is similar to French and he knows French. Steve always tells her that she should have taken French if she wanted to practice on him.

At any rate it doesn’t matter, because he knows that Angie can speak in Spanish fluently because her education came with a language immersion program that people had to take if they wanted to learn a language. As a result, two of the voices from the kitchen are speaking Spanish, and very loudly at that. Steve suddenly wonders if they had noticed his entrance, or not. And if not...

“You couldn’t have waited for me? Do I have to remind everyone that this is my kitchen and I love all of your cookies equally so please make them all?” Steve teasingly asks, stepping into the kitchen and noticing the half-empty giant jar of cinnamon on the countertop, as well as a faint brown dusting on the countertop that the jar is resting on. He then surveys the rest of the kitchen, which seems to be more or less intact and clean. The ovens are on, and he sees a few trays of something in them. There are mixing bowls and utensils everywhere, and a bowl of batter in Lena’s hands that doesn’t appear to be spiced. Yep, definitely the holiday spice argument.

Peggy and Angie are the closest to him, since they’re right near the countertop with the jar that creates almost a makeshift barrier between the kitchen space and people entering the kitchen room itself. Lena’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, right by the ovens, and then Sam and Riley are on the other side of her than Peggy and Angie. There are two entrances/exits to the kitchen that are at opposite ends, and his ma is standing between the second entrance and Riley. Coincidentally, she’s right by the cabinets where Steve keeps a lot of snacks, including the jar of chocolate chips. 

He’s greeted with a moment of silence during which he decides to finish his coffee, and then a bone-crushing hug from Angie, who seems to make it a point to land him in the hospital one of these days by breaking his ribs. Steve chuckles warmly, and then winces when his sides hurt. Great, he can’t wait to discover bruises again by sleeping on them the wrong way. At least the coffee didn’t spill like last year.

“Dad!” Lena says, and Steve can’t tell if she’s happy to see him early, or if she’s annoyed that he came early and ruined whatever surprise she had in store for him. “You’re early.” Yep, she clearly did have something planned. Steve’s suddenly thankful that he won’t get to see it, since last year’s surprise involved whipped cream, the stupid plate that she didn’t actually mean for, _and_ glitter. He still is not sure what part of that prank happened to be Peggy’s influence and what part happened to be Lena’s original idea. 

“Might have broken a few rules to get here early,” he shrugs causally, trying to prevent a smile from appearing on his face and giving up the game of acting cool. “And everyone knows that motorcycles have the best time beating traffic.” 

Peggy snorts, a thrilled smile appearing on her face. “You mean you gave everyone including the provost a wholesome, radiant smile and batted your eyelashes at them to leave early.” Riley snickers at that, clearly trying to hide the laugh into a cough. Angie’s doing the same thing, but she’s doing a much better job. Sam, the asshole, is grinning widely like he couldn’t care less about hiding his smile. “And then you stopped somewhere along the way to chat up the barista who made the coffee in your hand.” 

Steve gasps like the dramatic idiot he is. “I would never! I don’t know who you take me for, Ms. Carter, but a shameless flirt is _disgraceful_ to my good name.” Even his ma starts trying to stifle a laugh. He would be more hurt by her betrayal, but Steve’s always certain that his ma likes Peggy much more than him. Apparently Peggy calls more often, which is utter bullshit since Steve calls every other day, and sometimes even calls every day. 

“Ugh,” Lena says, pretending to gag. “So Mum can pretend to flirt with the cashiers and Dad can flirt with everybody he works with, but I can’t?” 

“Young lady, you are too young to eve be thinking about—” Peggy says at the exact time as Steve when he says, “If you’re trying to bring up Laya’s brother again, for the last time, just tell Laya that he can come here tomorrow too, and I’ll see if I like him.” 

Peggy stops before Steve does, and he doesn’t realize that she’s paused until he’s finished the sentence and Angie’s snickering into her palm. Steve hides a wince when he realizes he’s forgotten to mention both the Christmas party and Laya’s brother to Peggy. He tries to look away, and catches Lena suddenly eyeing the cinnamon jar with a little more interest than normal. 

“Steve!” Peggy hisses, glaring at him with disapproval. “She’s only fifteen!” 

“And your point is? I—” Steve starts to respond, before his mind catches up to his words and he realizes that it a very inappropriate thing to say in front of your daughter and your mother who doesn’t actually know that he ‘lost’ his virginity at 15. He tries to cover up the momentary lapse in judgement by saying, “I know she’s fifteen but people date when they’re fifteen, and then they break up or stay friends or lose touch altogether, but they still _date_.” 

“Oh my god, _Dad_,” he hears Lena mumble. He also hears his ma unsubtly try to leave the kitchen, taking Sam and Riley with her. He frowns at his ma since he hasn’t even properly said hello to her and she’s leaving, but she merely shrugs and waves a hand as if to say _later_. Soon, it’s just him and Lena, Peggy and Angie. “Thanks for not telling Mum.” 

He ignores her. “Peggy,” he says, much more quietly and with the faintest smile on his face. He doesn’t know what it says about the two of them when they only ever argue about Lena and every single aspect of her life. “Pegs, come on.” 

She shakes her head with a frown, and Steve watches as Angie also unsubtly tries to leave as she shepherds Lena and the bowl of batter in Lena’s hands out of the kitchen. He knows they’re all trying to give him and Peggy some privacy. He thinks that they all have realized that this was going to happen sooner or later, and by this he means an argument-cum-discussion over something about Lena that isn’t really about her at all. Or, if not an argument, a long conversation about what’s happening between the three of them: Peggy, Lena, and him.

“I just—” Peggy sighs, looking as though she wants to slump into a chair. She makes do with using the countertop for support as all the anger and sudden indignation leaves her. “I don’t know. She’s growing up too fast. And—dating, bloody hell, she wants to date.” 

“She’s almost sixteen,” Steve says, suddenly feeling too old even though he shouldn’t be. “A quarter of tenth grade over.” 

“She can’t be like us, Steve,” Peggy vehemently says, shaking her head. “She’s much too smart to have to have too many things on her head. Eva is not going to end up like us, having to claw our way up the ranks, and she doesn’t even have a parent with the patience and temperament that Sarah had or _has_ for us. Relationships are... not for people who want to keep going the way that she will want to.” 

Steve knows that fact, and he knows it well enough that this is the exact reason he’s trying to ‘play it cool’ by giving his approval on dating or not _after_ he’s met the potential boyfriend/girlfriend. The only reason he’s enforcing the rule now is because he wants her to try and become accustomed to him and Peggy checking out said potential partner in the future when trouble really begins to start. Also because he doesn’t want to have Lena dating and sneaking around him or Peggy to date if they’re too harsh or too lenient, and then land in actual trouble since neither he nor Peggy can help. Trust him, he’s thought long and hard about this, especially since after he’s had to have a variety of conversations with her. 

He just didn’t think they were going to bring this up now, not even ten minutes into his winter break. Steve had a plan, damn it. The plan involved tomorrow and Laya’s brother because he knew that Peggy would try to shield Lena as much as she could. She’s probably better at this than Steve is and he probably sympathizes too much with Lena, but it’s fine. He’s still going to give it a shot. 

“I _know_,” he says, tipping his head back against the wall, groaning because he really does know. “But she also doesn’t deserve to be shielded from teenage life just because we made a few ill-advised decisions. She’s smart enough.” 

“You know, that’s what they said about us too,” Peggy reminds him with a bitter twist to her lips. “That we were smart and old enough to sort out the good and the bad. Lena’s too smart, that’s true. But we were too smart once upon a time.” 

“We can’t think about her falling,” Steve says, standing normally so that he can see Peggy again, and not from the bottom of his vision. “We can’t think about her like that.” 

“Bullshit,” Peggy says. “No one did it for us, because they couldn’t even imagine us having to fight for every centimeter. The only reason we made it out was because we _have_ always been fighting for every second of respect and advancement in our lives. We’ve worked too hard for Lena to know those struggles.” 

Steve suddenly sees the fine lines around her eyes and mouth that have never shown on her face this prominently as they have now. They’re light, and barely noticeable, but with Steve’s eye for detail and the way he’s watching Peggy, he can’t help but notice them. He sighs and knows that if he looks in a mirror, he’ll start to see the faintest lines on his face too, especially in his forehead. All from a decade and a half of worry and stress, things that not even good genetics can beat. He suddenly realizes he’s woefully unequipped to properly have this conversation right now. Why didn’t he ask for an espresso shot two extra in his coffee? Why?

“But you think she’s too like us,” he says, knowing that Peggy’s right. “Only instead of the blood on our teeth, she has blood wherever the metaphor makes sense.” He pauses as what Peggy isn’t saying but _will_ _say_ strikes him. “But we can’t do what you’re going to want.” 

“We should. _She’s much_ _too_ _like_ _us_!” Peggy hisses. “Don’t tell me that you’re not thinking about this too.” 

“But we can’t helicopter her and end up _stifling_ her!” Steve protests, his voice raising in response to hers, feeling guilty just when he does. He’s invalidating her opinions, Jesus Christ, this isn’t what he should be saying right now but his brain won’t turn back online right now. “Both of us fucked up, yeah, I know. I know. Somehow, we didn’t raise a fuckup, even if that’s more my ma than anything we’ve ever done. Somehow, she’s still a well-adjusted teenager who hasn’t succumbed to stress of school or anything else, and that’s more than what a lot of other people can say. She’s doing just fine.” 

“She has almost all of our best and worst qualities,” Peggy says. “She’s too clever for anything to happen to her!” 

With his free hand, he massages his eyes using his thumb and pointer, rubbing slow circles into them. “What do you _want_ me to do?” Steve snaps, thinking _shit_, _shit_, _shit_, _shit. _He’s watching this train wreck happen in his own body. “What do I do about her, huh? If not now, what do I do later? She has freedom, she has choice, we can’t take that away from her!” 

“It’s just dating!” 

“Yeah,” Steve counters. “That’s my point.”

“No, just... Steve. It’s just one thing we can afford to be strict about,” Peggy says almost reasonably. Almost.

“It’s not just one thing. This isn’t about dating, is it?” Steve asks, Peggy’s rationale behind this argument suddenly making sense if he sees it from her point of view. Something’s happened to Peggy, something not so good that has to be a result of being who she is now. Something she hasn’t told Steve yet. _Shit._ And then, he just had to yell at her for it too. _Shit_. “It’s just one part, and I don’t even think dating’s the issue. If this was about dating, we wouldn’t be yelling at each other. I’m just sorry I didn’t realize it before and yelled anyway.” 

She stares at him for a long minute, and sighs, anger melting away as the lines on her face smoothen out. “You’re the sincerest fucking arsehole I’ve ever met,” she semi-fondly gripes, before the pleasant expression vanishes. “Can’t even be mad at you properly just for the sake of something tangible.” 

Steve doesn’t say anything. What he does, though, is set his coffee down on the cinnamon-dusted countertop that he’ll find the explanation for later, and walk towards Peggy to hug her. She stiffens, and he almost lets go, but she sighs again, body going almost slack. They don’t move for a while from that, but Steve’s mind is thinking of all the things that could have gone wrong since the last time he’s really talked to Peggy. 

It can’t be about Angie; from the seven minutes he’s seen of her, they seem to be fine. It can’t be about Peggy’s family either, he’s talked to Peggy’s brother maybe a week ago and Lena’s talked to her uncle who knows how recently and she hasn’t said anything. It can’t be about work; work doesn’t get her this stressed. But Chancellor Pierce does. Angie’s family, for that matter, does. Peggy’s guilt over Lena might. 

“I might not be granted tenure at SWORD,” Peggy reveals quietly, “Because of _certain_ _lifestyle_ _choices_ and being the antithesis of an exemplary professor.” Steve can hear the chastisement in the echo of what he knows to be Pierce’s words. But fuck, this isn’t something small at all. Peggy was almost sure to be easily granted tenure because of what she has already accomplished but outside and within SWORD University. 

Oh, _shit_. That doesn’t even begin to cover this. 

“He can’t discriminate because of sexuality,” Steve says, “What about Angie? Is she still on track?” 

He can feel Peggy shake her head slightly against his shoulder, and has a strange moment of déja vù to when he was the shorter one and always had his head come up to a little higher than her shoulder. 

“Angie’s safe,” Peggy says, sounding as if that is the only good to come out of her situation. “It’s just me.” 

“Lena?” Steve asks, though the answer has to be yes or at least partially yes. 

“Twenty years old and I had a baby with someone I had no intention of dating, marrying, or even staying with,” she whispers, fury and resentment boiling in her voice. “Apparently that makes for dubious ethics. After all that I’ve done to get my name out there, it’s going to be this again. Stigma.” 

“Have you told Angie yet?” he asks, whispering the words into her hair since she hasn’t let go of him and he has no intention of letting go first. “Does she know?” 

“You're the first one,” Peggy says, turning her head slightly against him so that her face wouldn’t be smooshed against his chest and shoulders, but rather her right ear and her hair would. “Only one, if I have anything to say about it.” 

“Peggy,” he says again, in commiseration. Steve doesn’t say anything else after that, not even when she slowly extracts herself from him and looks up into his eyes with a sad smile. 

“I don’t know,” she says, looking down suddenly. “If or when Pierce fires me, or ends my term, both of us know I’m not finding professional work again, not when word spreads on why. And you... _Steve_. You’re just a few years away from reaching tenure, too close. Both of us may have reputations that precede us, but reputations like the ones we will undoubtedly receive will make life very, very difficult for us and Eva.” 

Steve sucks in a breath when she mentions Lena and how Lena’s life might change if suddenly Peggy lost her job. Steve may teach at very prestigious university, but he doesn’t make enough money to be able to afford the house, live by himself and Lena, pay back his college loans and everything else, and be able to pay for her school or future college fees, not to mention help his Ma out. That’s only the economic fallout. So far, him and Peggy have been able to shield Lena from scholar notoriety, and most don’t know that the so named world-renowned Dr. Rogers and Dr. Carter have a child, let alone a child _together_ when they’re not together. Especially Peggy. She hails from a long line of distinguished individuals, and scandal is not conducive to anything, especially when prestige is on the line. Who knows what kind of blowback Lena would receive, especially once she reached college, where the odds were that at least a few professors would recognize him and Peggy. She doesn’t need that kind of blowback. 

“Why don’t you transfer to SHIELD?” Steve asks, bringing up the age-old conversation they’ve had about the other switching to their school. Usually, it’s Peggy and Angie harping on him to explore his U.K. roots (though his mother would pitch a fit if he called his Irish heritage anything resembling U.K. roots) and join SWORD. “I know that there are a few professors set to retire soon.” 

“Not without Angie,” she says firmly. “Not without her.” 

“Both of you,” he says, not missing a beat. “What’s keeping you, really? Your brother? Because I’ve seen your brother face-to-face more times in the past few years than you because of how often he travels.” 

“What if the idea doesn’t work?” she counters, “And it doesn’t solve the problem of Pierce lording Eva over me.” 

Steve doesn’t know what to say to that. “You have to talk to Angie,” he tells her instead, “And maybe we need to have a conversation with Eva. Not—not about dating, but maybe about your family history. About us.” 

Peggy nods slowly, but Steve can tell she’s thinking hard enough that she’s stuck in her mind. 

“Hey,” he softly says. “Peggy.” 

She flicks her eyes back up at him. “Do you ever wonder if Lena thinks about us?” Her words are slowly, spoken haltingly as if Peggy couldn’t manage to see them out loud. They’re troubled. 

“Every damn day. Especially when you don’t call,” Steve easily grins, though that isn’t what Peggy asked, not in the slightest. Defensively, Steve knows he’s crossing his arms and gripping his own arms too hard. He has no pockets to shove his hands into. Not even his smile feels comfortable. 

“Steve,” she sighs, “You know what I meant.” 

“I don’t know,” he admits. Truth be told, Lena’s asked every single question about them—except for this. “She must have thought about it, but she’s never asked. Has she ever asked you?” 

Peggy bits her lip and looks away, anywhere besides Steve. Steve knows the same feeling of wanting to ignore this conversation, wanting to hide it behind all of their constructed walls and pretend that they’re fine. But they can’t ignore this, they can’t pretend like Christmas season will erase their words and sweep it under the rug. Steve doesn’t even have a rug big enough to try and hide anything right now, thanks to the Nail Polish Incident of Last Month. And even then, he doubts anything to cover this up. 

When Peggy doesn’t respond, he decides to wait. Instead, Steve runs a finger across the countertop—trickier than normal because his back is still to that countertop because he’s still watching Peggy think too hard—and then licks his finger. Cinnamon. Sugar, but some of that really fine shit that Lena had been determined to grind herself using a pestle/mortar set and cane sugar. Flour, or at least Steve hopes that’s flour and not baking soda that he’s not going to discover the next time he places the sticky vinegar bottle (dried vinegar is apparently sticky???) on the countertop and something will start fizzing again. 

“I wanted her,” Peggy says. “God help me, I wanted her. And even if I didn’t, my parents wouldn’t have let me anywhere near a clinic and—” 

Steve freezes. He hadn’t known that. All this time, he’s always been under the assumption that Peggy’s parents had gone along with it, not that they had been a primary reason for Peggy to keep Lena. He hadn’t known that at all, hadn’t thought that the Carters would have such firm stances on abortion. Suddenly wishing for a time machine, Steve thinks he would give just about anything to go back in time and properly talk to Peggy—if it weren’t for the fact that he might not come back to a future with Lena in it. Selfish, he knows. 

“—wouldn’t change anything now but I can’t help but wonder if Eva ever wonders,” Peggy is saying when Steve snaps back into the real world and shit, Peggy’s crying. She’s crying, and she only cries the maximum of once a year unless they’re happy tears that only Angie can get out of her, shit, Steve’s not good with this because he usually cries when Peggy does because usually something to distress her can distress him and—shit. Shit. Steve’s floundering. 

Steve wants to hug her again, purely out of a reflex he’s developed because of Lena. Not that Lena cries either—inherited from Peggy because it’s well known amongst everyone in this house right now that Steve can and will cry at every other movie and that he’s banned from watching the first ten something minutes of Up—but the occasional frustration or friend-related situation gets to her. Or the time when he had to explain periods and Lena had cried because she didn’t want to lose more blood and become more anemic than she was because that would affect school and her overall performance. 

But he doesn’t. “We haven’t given her a reason to wonder if we didn’t want her,” Steve says with a certainty he doesn’t have. “And you know Lena, she would ask if she ever thought about it and came up with an answer she didn’t like.” 

Peggy’s eyes tiredly search his face for some kind of other answer, crinkling at the corners the longer she doesn’t say anything. She sucks in the hollow of her right cheek, seemingly swallowing in that air and then repeating the cycle. Pressing a hand to her face to clear her tears, she then rubs away at the corner of her eye with her pinky finger. Switch, change hand. Steve looks away after that, trying to stop his own thoughts about Lena. 

He instead looks at the fridge, or more accurately, the side of the fridge. Though it’s winter of her sophomore year, neither of them have yet taken down the certificate half of a theatre award she had won for her freshman spring musical that was apparently one of the few that they awarded just once a year. Or the certificate half of a theatre award she had won for her freshman fall play. Apparently the theatre awards were given out semiannually: once after the fall/winter performances and once after spring performances. Steve was, and still is proud.

_Outstanding Performance as a Supporting Character — Female: Sarah Evangeline Carter-Rogers for Alice in Wonderland_

_Scene-Stealer of the Year: Sarah Evangeline Carter-Rogers as Mayzie LaBird for Seussical _

When he looks back at Peggy, her eyes are wistfully looking just where he had been. Not happy, and definitely guilty. 

“I don’t know where I stand with her,” Peggy says. Steve opens his mouth to say that isn’t true, but she fixes him with a sharp look that wouldn’t shut him up if it were anyone else. “Don’t say it’s simple. It’s not, at least not for me and her.” 

“Peggy—” he says. 

“—don’t. You know better than I do where you stand in her life,” Peggy says with no trace of envy or jealousy because she’s too good for that. If their positions were reversed, Steve couldn’t say the same thing. 

“Only because I live with her,” Steve refutes. “If our positions were switched, and I was at SWORD and you were here, I don’t even think Lena would know my favorite color for how bad I am at trying to balance at my life. Every time she calls, you pick up or you text her back within a minute. Every single time. Or you apologize for not being able to come to the phone directly. You call Lena and I, well, mostly her, every other day at the very least.”

He pauses, glancing at the certificates for a second and eyeing the Polaroid photo pinned right above them. It’s from last year, and Steve remembers taking it all too well. It had been the day after Christmas and Lena was thrilled about receiving more film to snap photos. She had taken nearly a dozen of them within the day, ranging from photos of everyone to photos of moments of sheer stupidity. One of them, in particular, had been a photo of Steve doing a spit-take back into his own cup of hot mocha at something his ma had said. Lena claimed that she had initially snapped the shot to have a photo of Steve laughing, but the conspiratorial wink that his ma and Lena shared convinced him otherwise. But before Steve could call bullshit on them, Lena had unceremoniously thrusted the camera into his hands and forced him to take a ‘cute picture of Mum and me’ that she could place on her wall of Polaroids. 

Steve remembers having to first prove his photography skills by taking the same shot on his phone, showing the picture to Lena, and then listening to her have him try something else. He also remembers standing on the sofa, lying on the floor, kneeling on the floor, and various other poses that had all been wrong. After the fifth change, Steve had narrowed his eyes and quickly snapped a photo of Peggy and Lena with the Polaroid.

The resulting photo? Steve had captured perfectly Lena’s shocked face as she reached out for the camera, and the beginning of Peggy’s thrilled laughter. He hadn’t let Lena put it on her wall; he stuck it to the fridge instead. 

He looks back to Peggy, who seems to be looking at the picture next to that. It was one of Lena as Mayzie from Seussical. 

“I think,” he says, as Peggy’s eyes snap back to him, “If you ever ask her the same question, she’s going to tell you probably the opposite of what you’re thinking. And I’ll bet you almost anything she’ll tell you that you’re the favorite parent. You know why? Because it sure as hell isn't me.” 

“Why not?” Peggy asks. 

Steve grins, because this he has a fantastic answer to. “Well, for one, I picked her up from school the other day dressed exactly like Mr. Rogers and I still think that a few of her friends ask her how her dad’s neighborhood is doing. I’m not sure; guess I’ll find out tomorrow.” 

Peggy blinks once, a slow smile stretching over her face almost like she’s trying to force it on her face. Steve’s not surprised by that in the slightest. What he is surprised about is the tight embrace she pulls him in for. 

“You’re incorrigible,” she whispers, and soon enough, they’re both laughing quietly; him into her shoulder and her at the curve of his. 

When they both stop laughing—while the echoes of their conversation are tucked away neatly into the back of their minds by mutual unspoken agreement—Peggy pulls away from him, a lingering smile on her face. This conversation is far from over, far from even being had, but things have been aired out and now all they have to do is think. Think, and come back to it, possibly with Lena. And/or Angie. 

He wants it to be as easy as that, to neatly parcel it into a ‘Marked for Later’ collection of thoughts. But more than that, he wants to sober up for a second and tell Peggy that they shouldn’t wait until the end of Peggy’s stay here to talk again, and he wants to say so many other things. He won’t, though. Not when the look in her eyes knows that he wants to reassure her and is daring him to say something. He’s not taking the dare this time. 

So he grins back, dismissing his thoughts until the only thing he can think of is the fact that all his family is here. 

“Ugh,” he says, rolling his eyes at her, “I cannot believe we just had that conversation not even ten minutes after I walked in. You owe me a coffee.” 

She punches him in the shoulder and shakes her head at him like he’s a lost cause. A lost, asshole cause. “Merry Christmas,” she says, even though it’s not Wednesday of Christmas and is in fact actually the Friday before. 

“Was fucking merry before,” he mutters and she gives him a look that means he’s half-heartedly in for it sometime in his near future. But it’s fine, because Peggy’s always feeling her best whenever she’s tormenting him in the way that best friends are good at. And... she definitely needs cheer this season. It’s decided. 

Still, he resolves to make an impromptu visit back to campus tomorrow or Sunday, just to try and schedule an appointment with Chancellor Fury and subsequently, Dean Coulson, who is the head of the Humanities. Steve knows for a fact that Coulson _loves_ him, and up until now, he hasn’t ever taken advantage of that. For Peggy though? It’s worth a shot. He also knows that Fury will trust Coulson’s judgement like he trusts very few other people. 

“I’m going to go freshen up,” Peggy says, pulling Steve out of his plan for tomorrow. “And Sarah’s been eagerly waiting for you. Well, kind of. You’ll see.” 

She disappears into the hallway, and Steve decides to go into the living room, where he just _knows_ that everyone else has to be. And they are. Five sets of eyes stare at him when he walks in and unceremoniously plops down next to his ma on the free spot of the sofa. 

“So?” Lena asks without missing a beat. “What did Mum say? Please tell me you convinced her on dating.” She mumbles something about how unlikely that was right after, unsubtle as Steve knew she wasn’t. Sam snickers again. 

“Dating?” Steve asks blankly, before his mind catches up to Lena’s words and the conversation he literally just had. “What-oh. Fuck. Shut the fuck up Sam. Dating. Oh. Fuck.” 

“You shouldn’t really be swearing in front of my impressionable ears,” Lena mildly says, smirking just like Peggy does. “It’s not good parent behavior.” 

“On second thought,” Steve says in retaliation, leaning back into the couch cushions that are only reminding him why he never sits in this particular sofa, “Peggy and I have decided that you’re to remain single and not ready to mingle until you’re forty. At least. Have fun convincing Peggy otherwise.” 

“Yeah, are you following that rule too?” Sam asks, segueing right into Steve’s lack of a love life. Not again, not now. Steve needs more coffee, he really does for this. Or something stronger than coffee, less than cocaine. Hell, maybe he’d take it, if it weren’t for the fact that his mind flashes _DRUGS BAD DRUGS BAD DRUGS BAD DRUGS BAD DRUGS _because of Lena’s school drug education and because he literally works at a college where people get fucked up too much. Great, and now he’s giving himself the drug talk. 

“Shut the fuck up Sam,” Steve repeats tonelessly, choosing to sit up back because this sofa hurts. He wonder how his ma’s sitting so comfortably in it. “No one asked for your input.” 

“Sounds like you’re frustrated,” Riley says with a pointed look his way.

Lena squirms from where she’s sitting/lounging next to Angie. “Can we not talk about Dad’s miserable love life? There isn’t anything to talk about, and it’s gross. Please and thank you.” 

“You're pushing forty-five,” Steve threatens sternly, though he’s ever so glad for the interruption. “I’m telling Peggy.” 

“What are you telling me?” Peggy asks, eyes sparkling with delight unlike too soon again. But there had been a reason that Peggy and him had been leads themselves in the school theatre performances the years that she had spent in NYC Magnet Arts—the reason they had met related to the fact that he had attended NYCMA on a full scholarship while she was a foreign student there because her parents were rich: it was ostracism until proven ‘popular’ otherwise. As if popularity was a gene to be displayed. 

They could put on a show, switch personalities at the blink of an eye, and pretend like they were exactly who everyone else thought they were. Everyone who knew otherwise was shown the cracks in their façades. 

“She’s actually not dating until she’s 45,” Steve informs her matter-of-factly, blank expression on his face. 

Peggy raises an eyebrow, not moving from the threshold of the living room. “I thought we said forty? Rogers, you were the one who talked _me_ down.” 

“Then you should have no problem with me raising it,” he says just a little challengingly, and based on the the look Riley gives Sam, they’ve all picked up on it. Well, whatever. “Anyway, that aside, what are we going to do?” 

An alarm dings. “Cookies!” Lena suddenly yelps, springing from her seat and running out of the room. “Shit!” 

“Language!” Steve yells, sighing when he hears no response and changing the conversation. “So when did all of you get here?” 

“We beat the Army boys,” Angie declares proudly, gesturing for Peggy to sit down next to her now that Lena’s out of the room. “By three hours.” Angie puffs up just a little, winking at said _Army_ _boys_. 

“We got here at one,” Sam says, rolling his eyes like Angie’s already rubbed it in already. “Thinking that British’s and Brooklyn-British’s plane wasn’t at one in the morning or something.” 

When Angie and Riley (on behalf of Sam since Sam’s too Cool™️ to bicker) start bickering, Steve turns to his ma.

“When did you get here?” he asks calmly. 

“Peggy and Angie picked me up in the car they rented,” she says with a smile that spells too many questions for him. “Sam and Riley really were the last ones to arrive. But don’t pretend that no one saw you change the subject, or have Lena do it for you. Is there anyone? Or potentially a someone?” 

Steve glares for a second, but realizes that he’s doing it to her and should stop for fear of death. “Nothing changed in two days. Not even potentially a someone, Ma, you’re just as bad as everyone else. Come on, ask me something else.” 

She sighs as if it’s a burden to drop the subject, and yet she still doesn’t. “You know,” she smiles, “My friends—” 

“Oh my god,” Steve groans, covering his face with his hands. “You _have_ a grandchild. You have had a grandchild for a decade and a half, what do you want me to do? Find another one? _Ma_.” 

“My _friends_,” she continues, giving him a sharp look that he can see from how the fingers that are covering his eyes have a small gap between them so he can still see things, “Have children that are married andthey have grandchildren. _Plural_.” 

He winces again. “Why not get on Peggy or Angie or Riley or Sam? They have longterm partners to get married to,” he protests, praying to all the gods that he doesn’t and did and maybe still does believe in that everyone including his ma will drop the subject. “They don’t have children, either. That are strictly between who they’re dating,” he adds on before she says anything about Peggy and him.

His ma is still very unimpressed. “Do you really believe I haven’t been dropping hints about how I would love grandchildren in my lifetime from them? Or how I would love to attend a few more weddings in my life rather than funerals?” 

That makes Steve drop his hands from his face. “Whose funerals have you been attending?” he asks in horror, thinking back to the list of every single person his mother considers as a friend and confirming their status of life versus death in his mind. “You’re 58. Not even sixty. Just who of your stubborn friends are dying in their late fifties and sixties?” 

She waves a hand vaguely in the air. “Yes, but you are the only one who knows that. Only because you seem to spend more time studying my social calendar rather than asking me or talking to me.” Oh no. _Oh_ _no_. Here this goes. 

“I called you yesterday,” he says. “And Wednesday. Monday. I called you Sunday and I saw you Sunday!” 

She dismisses his protests with another vague hand gesture and pulls a face. “So? Tuesday?” 

“Grading periods? Lena’s rehersals? Cleaning this house?” Steve counters, thinking back to the very stressful day of Tuesday, which was only three days ago now that he thinks about it. Tuesday feels like an entire world before, with how much he had done.

“You also never talk about anything interesting, like all of your attractive coworkers,” she says and Steve has absolutely no clue what to say there. Not for the first time today, his brain is failing him and shutting. Steve.exe has failed to execute. Or something. Or maybe Steve’s brain.exe has failed to execute.

“The day you and Maria Stark became friends was the day half of me died,” Steve tells her instead, and it’s not false. Because now, Tony Stark—otherwise known as SHIELD’s favorite Engineering Professor—and his ma are also very close. He doesn’t know how it’s happened, only that the unspoken _that Tony tells me about_ attached to the end of her sentence is very heavily implied. Strangely, Tony has imprinted on his ma, well enough that only reason that Tony and Maria don’t live at Steve’s for break is that Tony also lives within a twenty-to-thirty minute radius of SHIELD and therefore has no need to bunk at Steve’s. 

What they do instead, is come over for Christmas dinner. By that, Steve means that Tony picks the lock (the very expensive, electronically activated system) to his house and invites himself and Maria in at five in the morning. Then they stay until the next day. The only good thing about this is that Maria and Tony make the best Italian food. Well, that and Steve absolutely loves Maria Stark and her ability to be absolutely fascinated with Lena and treat Lena like she is the best thing to ever exist on Earth. Which is true, but having Maria Stark (his childhood self could only _dream_ of meeting the philanthropist and former UN ambassador) do it is just, well, it proves that Lena is truly that great. 

He thinks that at some point, Steve had asked himself how his ma had managed to make best (best?) friends with Maria Stark, but he’s stopped wondering long ago. It’s only ever done them good, since Steve can easily say that him and Tony have had the best relationship of two guys who see almost nothing eye-to-eye. For two people who are as fundamentally different as ice and fire (they’ve agreed that Steve is the ice in this equation and Tony the fire) as they are, they keep consistently winning Best Professor Friendship at SHIELD: superlatives that are voted in by professors and students alike. 

(Side note: Tony had been the one to put them in the running the year that Steve had joined SHIELD, and now they keep being re-entered without either of them caring much about it. Well, Steve doesn’t care much about it. Tony does, which is why Tony has the little trophy.) 

The less is said about him and Tony, the better, because that means there’s more to be said about Tony and everyone else. The way that Maria and Tony have seamlessly integrated themselves into Steve’s family is almost frightening, but not quite. It actually turned out that Howard Stark (more so than Maria) and Peggy’s parents had been acquaintances when the three had been alive. Which meant that Tony and Peggy were somewhat technically childhood friends that exclusively met at galas, parties, social functions, and other highbrow events. They get on like a house on fire, but the best house on fire yet. Tony has just the kind of chaotic energy to fit into Steve’s family. 

_Family_. 

“Maybe so,” his ma says, pulling his thoughts back to the now. She watches his studiously, but glances over to the wall of framed photos and photo complications, a knowing smile on her face when she looks back to him. “Maybe so, but they were alone and people shouldn’t be.” 

Of course she says something poetic, sweet, and pointed. Pointed in the sense that it’s aimed right back where he wanted to steer the conversation away from: his non-existent love life that everyone wants to stick their noses in. How very amatonormative of them all. 

“Ma,” he says, “You’re absolutely shameless.” 

She winks. “So you tell me every week.” 

“I’m just going to check up on Peggy and,”—Steve pauses when he hears Angie dramatically gasp and then sees Riley throw his hands up in the air,—“hope that they, or you, defuse whatever argument it is now.” He sighs and gets up from the very uncomfortable couch, heading back into the kitchen. 

The scent of cinnamon is even stronger than it was before he left this kitchen. He steps in and sees the jar of cinnamon completely open. He also sees a few _trays_ of cookies cooling everywhere, as well as the batter for a few new batches of them. Except they don’t seem to be for cookies, but rather chocolate cake or cupcakes. Steve doesn’t even have to glance at the sink to know that he’ll be scrubbing baking ingredients and batter from various bowls later. 

He’s about to ask Lena what she’s doing when he realizes that she hasn’t noticed him yet, because she’s on her phone. 

“Alissa, I don’t _know_,” she’s saying nervously into it, “Mum’s not going to let me, and I don’t know if Dad’s going to be able to convince her. Yeah, I know that my dad’s good at talking people into things. Of course I remember Homecoming last year. I’m never going to get the image of Dad flirting with both Principal Janney and Vice Principal Sigyndottír, but you’ve barely met my mum. Mum’s sympathetic to Laya but I can’t ask Laya for help because it’s her _brother_...” 

Steve tunes out of her conversation, wordlessly making sure his steps are louder than normal and stepping around her to whisk the batter she’s left alone for the moment. It smells like spiced chocolate cake; he was right. He doesn’t get to whisk it, because Lena pokes him in the back, clearly wanting him to turn around. 

So he does, and it seems like she’s ended her call. 

“Dad,” Lena says, “Seriously.” 

“Lena,” he repeats, “Seriously.” 

“Dad.” 

“Talk to Mum, not to me,” Steve says, raising his hands in surrender. If he says anything, there’s a very real chance that what comes out of his mouth is not going to be the words that neither Lena nor Peggy, later, will want to hear. So he changes the subject, saying, “Help me, instead. Or come back to it, since you started this off by yourself.”

Lena frowns, not moving. Steve turns around and starts whisking again, reminding himself for the hundredth time to buy a new electric mixer or whisk. He gets so far as to running down a complete list of what he keeps pushing off to buy when Lena finally takes the bowl from him. 

“He’s coming,” she says, trying to sneak a glance at his face. Too bad; Steve has been watching her try to ask him something this entire time. Lena rolls her eyes at being caught and then points to a few sheets of gingerbread men. “Those need to be iced. Do what you did last year.” 

Steve eyes the cookies, and Lena’s impassive face, and nods. He finds that she’s left several cones of icing out already, and he dutifully brings them over to the cookies, to start icing them. He is almost reasonably sure that last year involved several dozen cookies that he vaguely made resemble the school staff for last year’s Christmas theatre bake sale. Pulling out the blue icing first, if he remembers correctly, Steve starts to pipe out a series of blue shirts. He then pipes out red pants, and a black belt with red dots across it, as well as a black star on the blue shirt. After that, Steve pipes out red glasses on the gingerbread man, thinking that it looks just like Lena’s Mr. Crazinzki. 

“Everyone coming knows that it’s not going to be just me here, right?” Steve asks after he’s finished a row of gingerbread men that look like her beloved English teacher. “You’ve warned them?” 

“Well,” Lena says, smirking at him over her shoulder, “Sam and Riley’ll be gone most of the night, and I made ‘em promise to stay out of everyone’s way if they come earlier then they said they would. Maimeó says she has a thing with Móraí so she’s out. And then Mum and Angie are going to be here which is great because everyone wants to meet Mum and Angie. And like, everyone already knows how to deal with your crazy.” 

Steve already knew that his ma (Lena’s Maimeó) had plans with Maria (Lena calls her Móraí, which never fails to touch Maria and the rest of them have rolled with it) but he hadn’t realized that Sam and Riley were going out. Not that it was going to really bother him; Steve was planning on catching up on work and those grants he had been planning to apply for next year. 

“Okay,” he says. “And everyone knows where we live; does anyone need a ride back?” 

He can just feel Lena thinking even though he can’t see her. Wondering what she’s about to ask him, he decides to wait and ice another row of gingerbread Crazinzkis. “Um, actually, do you mind if Laya stays over? And Alissa?” 

He nods, trying to remember what he had done last year for the drama teacher, Ms. Dancy. He pipes in eyes, a purple smile, a white shirt that ties in the front, and black pants: the classic attire for her based on what he’s seen of the woman and Lena’s description of her. Ms. Dancy apparently has the best lipstick and necklace combinations that change every day ay, so he makes sure to pipe in a purple necklace. 

“Dad?” Lena asks impatiently. 

“What?” He looks up and sees her standing and staring at him. Her arms are crossed and waiting, expectant.

“So?”

“So what?” 

“Dad! Can they sleep over?” 

“Yeah,” he says, “I said that already.” 

“No you didn’t.” 

“I nodded.” 

“You looked like you were going to fall asleep on poor Ms. Dancy.” 

Steve scoffs at her, shooting her a dirty look before he says, “Oh, so I fall asleep on a tray of cookies once and suddenly I’m narcoleptic. I had a long day dealing with questions from overachieving freshman.” 

“What’s your excuse now?” Lena asks him as she taste-tests a little bit of the batter by dipping her pinkie finger in it. 

Steve raises an eyebrow at her, but immediately gets an idea for Lena’s principal, and starts piping it down. One idea of the principal turns into an idea for the vice principal, and before he knows it, Steve has finished every single gingerbread cookie that Lena has baked so far. He also realizes that his clothes are covered in icing, which is a damned shame because these are really nice clothes that are non-suit work clothes. He really should have changed. Shame on him. 

“All done,” he says after a minute of lamenting the icing. 

Lena spins around from where’s checking the oven so fast that he gets whiplash from watching her do it. She’s stunned. “Already?” She strides right up to him and inspects the cookies in disbelief. Steve thinks he should be appalled by her lack of faith in him. “Dad, what? You just popped off. How the fuck?” 

“Thanks,” he says, clearing his throat pointedly when she keeps muttering to herself about how it really shouldn’t have been possible. “You know, there are actual smart people on this world who think I’m artistically gifted?” 

Scoffing, she goes back to the oven and says, “Yeah, and I don’t know how much longer you’re going to keep finessing people like that, but as long as there are idiots willing to pay for us, I’m not telling them anything.” 

“You can’t call them that,” Steve protests vainly, his attention taken mostly up by meticulously checking each cookie and seeing if it’s up to a good standard. It’s not as if Lena will actually listen to him about that. “They’re patrons and they’re very wealthy.” 

“Aren’t you my socialist-leaning parent?” Lena asks in exasperation, though most of it might be towards the fact that the cake is due to hit a certain level of rising soon, and it’s not happening earlier than predicted. “You rant about the 1% like, all the time. Besides Tony and Móraí. They’re good people. And...” 

He loses all boundaries and concepts of time and space after that, noticing a mistake in one of the Ms. Demidova cookie’s little dress detail. And another one. Steve also forgets that they’re cookies and not actual things of art that actually matter more than the two seconds they’ll be admired and promptly eaten. 

“Dad!” Lena yells. He blinks and turns, and she’s suddenly right in front of him, glaring at him with the same intensity of Peggy during finals.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, rubbing his eyes with the hand that has less icing smears on it. “What?” 

“What were you and Mum talking about? Because I think everyone knows that you guys moved on from me to something else. What was it?” Lena asks. She looks worried. How has Steve missed this? Wait. Did she hear something from before? Is that why she is asking? How does she know that there’s something to be worried about? “We heard yelling and then no yelling and then yelling again.” 

Steve blinks again, slowly, to try and keep his spiraling questions to a number of about zero. “SWORD,” he tells her honestly. “We were talking about how your Mum’s doing at SWORD. Then we talked about SHIELD, and about our own college lives.”

Lena wrinkles her nose. “Old people stuff, okay, but that explains none of the yelling.” 

“That related to the dating thing. And that’s all I’m saying until you talk to your Mum about it. Okay? I know that it might seem stupid to you, or that we’re being overprotective of you when we haven’t really been that much before. And as much as I want to give you an answer, I’m going with Peggy here, alright?” 

She looks like she had to suck on a sour lemon, but she nods, and Steve wants to sigh. He wants to tell her to go learn fro herself that people at age 15 do crazy, stupid things more often than not, and that everyone does something in some part of their life that doesn’t pan out the way it’s supposed to. 

“I just want to know one thing,” she says, her voice tight and even. It’s the way she talks she when she doesn’t want anyone to know what she’s feeling, which the blank voice is good at concealing. But the fact she’s using the blank voice is telling as it is. 

“Shoot,” Steve says. 

“If I was... you know, a boy, would we still be having the same conversation?” Lena asks, dead serious. But at least this he has an answer to, a good one that Lena won’t hate him for saying. Much. 

“If you were, you know, a boy,” Steve mimics, smirking at the annoyed set of her face, “You probably would have gotten this conversation before now because society puts expectations on guys to have sex and on girls to be in a relationship. Actually, scratch that, you would have gotten it. Period. But you’ve always had a clear head, so consider yourself lucky to have this conversation as is now, and not before.” 

“There’s the rant on society I was waiting for,” she says finally, because she is definitely his and Peggy’s daughter, and so is a master of deflection and changing the topic in the blink of an eye. But unlike the two of them, Lena can’t hold it very well, and so she breaks her faked nonchalance and smiles. “Thanks, Dad.” 

Before he can respond to that, all he hears is an annoyingly loud noise, like someone dropped a metal disc on the floor and now it’s spinning around trying to land properly. Steve winces and wonders which one of the four idiots dropped his little metal shield that a student from three years ago had gifted him. 

“Sometimes I wonder how you’re friends with such put-together people,” Lena says even as he’s rushing out the kitchen. She’s right behind him, curious. “And then there are times like these when I wonder why I’m perfect when everyone around me is a hot mess.” 

Steve can’t even scold her for calling him a hot mess, because she’s right. “Maimeó’s life is in order,” is all he says, sighing.


	2. Been Runnin’ From It For The Longest Time

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Steve blurts out in horror at the tragedy, covering his eyes and face with his hands so he can pretend like the metal shield isn’t currently dented in front of him and that maybe he just saw it wrong. He does, unfortunately, have to remove his hands from his face and open his eyes pretty soon. No, the shield is still dented on his floor. Steve winces and looks up inot the faves of his guilty friends and his surprised mother. ”My _god_.” 

“Sor—” Riley starts to say, in apology because he’s kind like that sometimes. He’s also the one that looks the most guilty, so maybe it’s that, but Steve wants to think it’s because they Riley is a kinder person. 

“How did you even _dent_ it?” Steve asks, incredulous. The student who had given it to him had been adamant that it absorbs all shock and can’t be damaged, because it is enforced with some metal called vibranium that Steve is admittedly not knowledgeable about. When he had asked Tony about it, all Tony had done was gape that Steve possessed adamantinium in such a pure, perfectly crafted form that defied physics. Steve hadn’t known what adamintinium was, especially since Shuri hadn’t mentioned it when she explained the shield. Steve, to this day, is a little embarrassed to ask her what she meant, and even more so because she’s actually a SWORD student who did a semester exchange. He really doesn’t want to ask Peggy to ask her, especially because he doesn’t think Shuri would ever have her. 

“It was thrown at Peggy’s phone case, and her phone case dented it,” Riley says, carefully avoiding mentioning who had thrown the shield in the first place. Steve suddenly remembers what Shuri had told him and re-evaluates his stance on what classes Shuri is taking at SWORD.

“Did you buy any chance get your phone case from a girl named Shuri?” Steve asks. “Supposedly indestructible?”

Peggy startles, staring at her phone case (also slightly dented, and Steve can see where it had hit) in surprise. “Yes, I did, her freshman year. How on Earth did you figure that out?” 

Steve laughs and grabs the shield, touching the dent and watching in satisfaction as it reformed into its perfect shape. Something that Shuri had told him amounted to this: if another object with vibranium ever came in contact with the shield, it would dent, but only for as long as it didn’t have another’s place to transfer the shock energy to. In this case, it is Steve’s thumb, which kind of hurts but whatever. His shield is fine. Steve touches Peggy’s phone case and it also pops back into place. 

“She must give all her favorite teachers a thank-you parting gift,” Steve says with a smile. “Telling she gave you a phone case. Isn’t it?” Peggy looks at him incredulously. 

“Oh, shut up,” Peggy snaps with no real heat. “She gifted you an utterly useless shield, do you truly want to start analyzing that?” Steve really does not want to get into that, so he drops it. 

“I’m fond of that shield, thank you,” he says, in fake affront. “In fact I love it so much that someone’s going to have to pay for giving me a heart attack over it.” He bluffs his way through that, but he starts thinking of a suitable retribution. Maybe just so that when they call his bluff, he has something. But in the meanwhile, he blandly smiles, the same way Dean Coulson does whenever the man waits expectantly while giving off a mutinous, murderous vibe. 

Sure enough, Sam calls him out on it. “Bullshit,” Sam says, gesturing to the shield. “Who are you making pay for that, huh?” 

“Thanks for volunteering to come to the staff party,” Steve tells him with a brighter smile, so that Sam can’t possibly object. Well, Sam tries, but Steve’s phone starts ringing, leading Steve to realize that this entire day has been one event after another, strung together by a series of interruptions and fast-paced, emotional moments. Oh, god, what now? 

He pulls a face, and the steps out into the hallway to take the call away from shameless eavesdroppers. Steve holds the phone to his ear without checking to see who it is, and politely greets whoever could possibly be on the other end. Experience has cautioned him against not being polite when he checks his phone, no matter what the caller ID ever says. 

“Dr. Rogers, just a reminder that your office will be renovated over the break; if you want to take anything that you do not want harmed...” Dean Coulson tells him on the other end, something that Steve had definitely forgotten about. At least it gave him the perfect opening to talk to Coulson anyway. 

“Oh, thank you,” he says in relief, though his office is empty for the most part, having brought a lot of stuff home to clean and fix over break. “I’ll drop by in tomorrow to pick up the last of it. Actually, will you be on campus tomorrow at any point? I just wanted to have a quick conversation with you.” 

“Of course,” Coulson responds, not sounding like he thinks Steve is an idiot—not that Dean Coulson would ever think that of him. “I’m here from ten to five tomorrow, and available for a conversation longer than five minutes anytime between noon and two.” 

“Noon is good,” Steve confirms, slightly nodding with his head though Coulson cannot see him. “I’ll see you then. Thank you.” 

“Of course,” Coulson says, and the call disconnects. Steve waits a minute, and then closes his phone, putting it back in his pocket with a sigh. Experience has also taught him to be absolutely sure a call has gone through and ended before resuming normal life. 

He breathes in relief and then join his family back in the living room, but they’ve moved on to easier topics. Steve waits for a lull in conversation, and then asks, “What are we doing for dinner?” 

After that, everything goes in order. But he’s quickly reminded that no matter how much he loves all of them, it will not fix the fact that he won’t have a moment to breathe until things start up again. They can all cook together, eat together, play poker together, call bull on Riley’s bluff every time together, and watch a movie together, but every time Steve looks at his family, he thinks of what it has taken for them to get here, and what they’re still going through. 

It’s bittersweet, this feeling of a transient life. There’s always a shoe waiting to drop, on the precipice of an unsteady shelf.

Steve decides that he’s done being mopey and checks himself out to go to bed, much to the joy of his family, who he usually cleans dry in poker. They tease him for being old and tired—except for his ma, who has somewhat of a knowing look in her eye—but he’s too drained to even care. 

The next morning, he’s the first to rise at five sharp, which gives him a solid hour and a half before Riley wakes up, and a solid two and a half hours before anyone starts to wake up with the mostly non-existent sun. Steve goes through the motions, and then gives himself a mental rundown of today. 

Everyone is leaving, for the most part, besides Peggy and Angie who he can wrangle into helping him and Lena with tonight’s party. The two of them are also more likely to indulge Lena with decorations and her ‘artistic vision’ so he figures that they’ll do that when he’s out at SHIELD with Coulson. He’ll pick up food on the way back. And groceries. And then: party. 

He loves that Lena’s popular and that she has a lot of friends, but they always have questions; he doesn’t always have answers. As they’re getting older, a lot of those questions are veering towards university and uni life. Or how to be responsible when they’re older. He’s not the responsible one. He’s 35, and it may look like he has his life together, but Peggy and Angie have it more together than he does. Which isn’t a very high bar, but still. _Lena_ has it together. To this, he thanks every god out there that she’s not as stupid or reckless as he was. 

Steve, in his first 90 minutes of quiet bliss, starts to tidy up the main floor. The friends that she’s inviting over for this Christmas party are the ones that know to never go upstairs, because that’s where he usually grades papers and projects. He doesn’t have to clean that anymore than he did in preparation for everyone coming here. Which leaves him the main floor, because he knows that Lena will take care of the basement.

Mindlessly, he does, until he bumps into Riley. 

“You didn’t eat breakfast yet,” Riley accuses, and then frowns deeper. “You didn’t have coffee either. And you’re up?” 

“I don’t need it to survive,” Steve says, lying through his teeth. Truth be told, he has no clue how he’s coherent at six-thirty without a drop of caffeine. Maybe it’s hunger keeping him awake and alert. And he looks all around him and realizes that he’s pretty much done, because their main floor is pretty clean most of the time anyway. 

Riley laughs. “I _got_ you that giant mug you use for work.” 

“Your point?” Steve asks, raising an eyebrow. 

They end up waking everyone else up with the smell of breakfast. Riley’s a better cook than him, given that Riley’s helped Ma cook since they were young and Steve only learned once he hit the later years of his ‘teens to show-off to people. Even though Steve cooks a lot more than Riley now—by due necessity—some things still don’t change. What helps is that they know a lot of the same breakfast receipes, having learned them from the same person and then doing better. It makes breakfast easier. 

No one believes that they’re brothers, not until they actually spend approximately five minutes with the two of them. And sure, they might not be blood brothers, but the amount of time Riley spent at home (the childhood one) before and after his ma adopted him certainly qualifies him for it. Honestly, Steve thinks that even when Riley was living with his birth parents, he spent more time at Steve’s. 

But once someone spends five minutes with them, it’s never been clearer. 

“Seriously though?” Riley asks, catching Steve off guard. “No one?” 

Immediately after hearing the question, Steve pours himself a cup of coffee and drains it. “You’re dating my best friend. Shut up.” No one in his family is allowed to give dating advice unless they’re prepared for Steve being snarky, they all know this. 

Sam and Riley might as well have had the world’s most cliché romance with the whole ‘my best friend’s brother” and ‘my brother’s best friend’ thing going on for them. And on top of that they had their long, angsty, DADT/DADT repeal Army drama, not to mention to the whole friends-to-lovers trope. Peggy and Angie’s story is less pining, more dramatic since their friendship was the rocky part, up until they realized they were both very, very compatible. His Ma is immediately out of the question: he knows how his parents met and fell in love. That’s not happening to him, and the less he thinks about their story, the better. Not because it’s sad, but because no one wants to picture their parents’ love story like _that_. Tony, _no. _Maria might actually be the only one he can ask, but then again, she’s best friends with his mother. No.

“I know when you’re lying, idiot,” Riley says, cracking yet another egg and turning towards him. “Who?”

“Who what?” Steve mimics, not rising to any bait because he’s better than that. 

“Really?” Riley asks, unimpressed. “We’re back in fourth grade now?” 

“It’s like you can’t hear yourself,” Steve fires back, turning to make a face at Riley, who rolls his eyes. So maybe he’s not better than that. “You’re the one that’s a second away from asking me who I’ve got a crush on.” 

“Who do you have a crush on?” Riley deadpans, holding a straight face. They’ll never admit who cracks first, but it sure as hell isn’t Steve. “Bacon’s burning.” 

“There isn’t even bacon in the oven!” Steve protests, because there isn’t bacon in the house. Lena recently visited a farm and ending up loving all the pigs, from the cute pink piglets to the large, 700 lb, black pigs. As a result, they haven’t had bacon or pork in well over two months. Steve’s never been heavily attached to his bacon anyway. 

Still, he checks, wincing the second he does because—

“You looked.” 

“Oh, fuck you, some of us are still scarred from the time you ruined Ma’s oven,” Steve gripes. It was right before his birthday, no less, which meant that Ma hadn’t been able to make him the special apple cake she always made for the day. It had actually taken well into November to scrounge up the money for a new oven. 

Riley smirks, the absolute bastard of a brother. “Like I was the only one. Whose idea was it again?” 

“Yours,” Steve says the same time Ma comes down and says, “Both of you.” 

Riley points the fork he’s using to mix the eggs in Steve’s direction and laughs. “Ha.” 

“Boys, really?” Ma asks, “You’re both on the wrong end of thirty for this.” She looks like she woke up for the smell of coffee, because she perks up right as she sees the almost full percolator. Steve does have a clear one for a reason; they’re all caffeine addicts in this house, which why there’s a kettle on already too. Thankfully not Lena though... yet. Steve sometimes wonders if he’s indulging her Starbucks habit, but considers that the sugar in Lena’s drinks are probably more impactful than the small amounts of caffeine. Still, he’s worried about her caffeine intake. He doesn’t want to raise a caffeine addict, and everyone here indulges her. 

“Steve still hasn’t made it past twenty,” Riley says in defense, which is a poor defense, because it’s both false and doesn’t say anything about Riley. And now Steve’s overthinking everything. 

“I think I hit adulthood faster than you did,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. Riley’s more than a year and a half older, or 578 days older, being born on February 2. 

“I joined the army,” Riley counters, as if that’s supposed to answer anything. Steve’s met both childish assholes and entitled assholes who have joined, in addition to the people who have actually wanted to serve. “Pretty tough.” 

“Pretty sure the army stunted your maturity,” Steve says. “How much grunting and gun-posturing did you do there?” 

“Let’s hear it, o wise one,” Riley says, “What makes you think you’re any better?” 

Steve gives him a look. “I’m hearing disrespect in my own house. You know they call me Dr. Rogers everywhere else and I—”

”Have a title kink?” Riley fills in with a shit-eating grin on his face. Steve’s a little envious of how someone can whisk eggs so perfectly without even looking at them. Not that he’ll ever say it. “Only people who get PhDs have a title kink.” 

“Boys, it’s too early to hear about your sex lives,” Ma says, looking more awake than she did before. She walks and stands right in the middle of the kitchen. But more importantly, between the two of them. “Save it for dinner time. Why don’t we get Tony to grill Steve on his love life?”

“Ma,” Steve groans as Riley says, “He’s coming tonight?” 

“Mmm, no. Not unless he wants to drive from Midtown to here just for the thrill.” The three of them pause. “No,” Ma amends. “Maria, Tony, and I are all going to her country club. Apparently Tony has to give a speech or something.” 

“That’s right, all of you are leaving,” Steve grins, pretending to be happy about it. 

“And you’re stuck with two dozen teenagers,” Riley says, before he realizes something and sets down everything in his hands. “Wait. Some of Lena’s friends have single parents. _Steve_.” 

“Who are all about a decade older than me,” Steve shudders, horrified at the thought of going on even a single date with any of them. “At least.” Age gaps are just... not his thing. Younger Steve might have been fine with having sex with someone that older, but Younger Steve was an idiot. And it was just sex. 

“Ageist,” Riley says. 

“It goes both ways,” Steve says. It’s true. Dating someone a decade younger would be like dating a student: cause for more shuddering. Being a professor puts a lot of things in perspective. It also makes naming anything hard. He’s just glad that Peggy and him named Lena long, long before they taught. If Steve had to name a baby now, he would cry. “Nope.” 

“Ew,” Riley says. Steve looks at him, as if to say, _see? _

“What’s gross?” Peggy and Angie say, entering the kitchen. 

“Dating a student,” Riley answers, only for both Peggy and Angie to pause and cringe. “Not that-it’s a long conversation.” 

“As long as it doesn’t start with Steve having feelings for someone that young,” Angie says, going for the coffee while Peggy butts in between Ma and Riley for the kettle. “All of us are having words with you.” 

Steve forces himself not to turn red as a tomato. “I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight; all of you are going to give me nightmares. You better sleep with an eye open. If I can’t sleep, neither are you.”

“Stop referencing dead Vines,” Riley says. “What are you, a teenager? Looks you haven’t made it past—” 

“I have a teenager,” Steve says. “What’s your excuse?”

This is how breakfast goes, with Steve and Riley bickering with each other around their mother, and Peggy and Angie joining Riley’s side occasionally. Sam eventually comes down, and he wisely doesn’t say anything. Lena comes down when they’re all done, just as Steve finishing flipping over the last pancake he plates for her stack. The time is nine o’clock, and soon enough, Steve wheedles out the story of why the countertop was covered in spice and flour. 

Unfortunately, this means making a deal with the devil about taking her out shopping that moment. It’s ten o’clock and they’re in the car, just him and Lena, right after he threatens everyone else to not destroy his house, please. 

“You never agree with me that fast,” Lena says to him as they pull out of the driveway. “What’s up?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve tells her. He doesn’t say no to her _that_ much. Certainly not enough to warrant that comment. He’s reasonable. Very reasonable. 100% reasonably cool. He can feel her roll her eyes next to him, tossing him a dry look. When he peeks in the rear view mirror, he sees her unimpressed look. 

“Dad,” she huffs, tired of his shit already. He smiles, just as he takes a familiar left. 

“No clue.” 

But Peggy was a keen, perceptive teenager once, and so it doesn’t surprise him when she says, “It’s about last night.” And judging by her tone, she knows it’s not about her either. “You know, Anya and Jamil always have stories about their parents trying to date.” 

“Rafael’s niece Anya, Anya?” Steve asks, wondering when Lena and Anya became friends. He’s hoping they aren’t, but if Lena’s heard stories of Rafael trying to dates then all hope is lost. “Anya Corazón, right?” 

“Yeah,” Lena says slowly. “Anya’s uncle’s name is—how do you know that?” 

“You’re friends with her? I thought you hated her! You’ve only gotten in trouble once in your life and that was for fighting her.” Steve groans, wondering when this change came about. 

“In fifth grade,” Lena protests, all but turning in her seat to face him. “We laugh about it. Dad. How do you know this?” 

“I plead the fifth,” he says. “Is she coming tonight?” 

“Yeah,” she answers. “Why wouldn’t she?” Steve has a million reasons, all which start and end with her father coming to drop and pick her up, probably having to engage in small talk. With Peggy and Angie right there. 

“Nevermind,” he says. “I’m pleading the fifth on everything. But. What kind of stories?” 

Lena doesn’t say anything for a minute, clearly not buying it. “The funny kinds. Jamil’s mother apparently once went on a date with a taxidermist who wouldn’t stop talking about someone trying to taxidermy their former pet rat.” 

“I’m never telling you about my dating life,” he tells her as he parks in front of a large supermarket. 

She gets out. “That’s because you don’t have one. You just flirt with everyone, and it goes nowhere.” 

That’s pretty much how it goes the entire suerpmarket trip, except now Steve thinks that everyone in the entire supermarket knows that he’s woefully single (which they also knew before, but without the descriptor), and that he’s looking to date (which he isn’t). He has no doubt that somehow, word will spread in this relatively small town, further embarrassing him. Whatever. He’s not important in this town; the noise will disappear in a day, maximum. 

After Lena’s done with both embarrassing him and finding everything she wants, he drops her off home, switches the car for his motorcycle, and drives to SHIELD. It’s a little earlier than twelve, so he checks out his office, and instantly realizes that he had taken care of it long ago. By that time, it’s close to twelve, and he goes to meet Coulson. 

“Hello,” Steve greets, walking into Coulson’s office. 

“Dr. Rogers,” Coulson says with a smile, gesturing for Steve to take a seat. “What brings you back here during vacation?” 

Steve starts to answer, before realizing that jumping in with it might not be the best option. So he pauses and rewords his questions. “I just had a few questions about SHIELD and SWORD, and was wondering if you could answer them?” 

Coulson looks a little surprised, but moves past it, eyeing Steve with a degree of hesitancy. “Do you wish to switch—” 

“No!” Steve interrupts, alarmed at the possibility that Coulson thought he hated it here. He clears his throat, toning it down a little. Steve likes his job, thank you very much. “Not related to me. I would very much like to keep my job here.” He internally curses for fucking it up already. 

“Okay,” Coulson says, confused. Right, Steve needs to start talking himself out of this mess. 

“Are the tenure policies at SWORD and SHIELD the same?” he asks, noticing that his question does nothing to clear up Coulson’s confusion. “Again, not for me.” 

“Yes, they are the same,” Coulson says. “Though they vary yearly, as the board who decides tenure shifts priorities and reviews cases differently per year. But if you are asking if a professor is granted tenure at SHIELD, they would be granted tenure at SWORD and vice versa.” 

That was good news, at the very least. “How much does a professor’s personal life factor into their case?” 

“Officially, it matters in the connections you make and if your personal life would not distract from your professional commitments,” Coulson says, which everyone knows. “Unofficially, bias and an individual’s moral charcter does come into question. Especially at prestigious universities, reputation matters.” 

Sometimes, Steve loves Dean Coulson for his blunt honesty. 

“What is this about?” Coulson asks, voice neutral, which means that he’s suspicious. Anyone would be. 

“I have a daughter,” Steve carefully reveals, watching Coulson’s every reaction. “Who is fifteen years old.” He waits for Coulson to do the math, and when he sees a lightbulb go off on Coulson’s face, says, “I’m also not married, never was married, never wanted to be married. Actually, I wasn’t even with my daughter’s mother, though we’re close friends. How much of a problem would this be?” 

“Well,” Coulson says, blinking in what had to be the most stunned silence Steve has ever seen Coulson in. “Unless your... daughter’s life is negatively impacted in cases where the law could be involved, then not by much.” 

“Chancellor Fury and Provost Hill have always known,” Steve adds on. 

“Not a problem, then,” Coulson says. “I imagine hiding this from them would not have been wise.” 

“Okay,” Steve says. “So here’s a slight add-on to the situation. Instead of teaching here, I teach at SWORD, and I have a partner who isn’t my daughter’s mother. My partner also teaches at SWORD. Though both SWORD and SHIELD have policies forbidding discrimination based on sexual orientation, I know that a lot of people disapprove of my relationship with my partner. How much of a problem is this now?” 

Coulson shakes his head, but all the surprise vanishes from his face, and he looks relieved. “It still should not be a problem. I’m assuming in this scenario, Chancellor Pierce knows about your daughter?” Steve nods. “It would not be a problem here. As long as the professor in question has a good academic standing, which all professors asking for tenure do, it shouldn’t be an issue here.” 

Steve sighs in relief. He can’t wait to tell Peggy. “That’s good to hear.” 

“If you mind me asking, why the scenario?” Coulson asks. And then it occurs to Steve that Coulson now thinks that all of it was a false picture. “It is odd timing.” 

“Oh,” Steve says, clearing his throat again. “I really do have a daughter. But the questions weren’t—weren’t for me. For my friend. She’s worried about her future, um, since she’s been receiving messages threatening to expose our daughter and to ruin her. My friend has quite the name for herself, beyond the academic world.” 

He sees the gears click nicely into place for Steve’s situation. Well, for Peggy’s situation. “Ah,” Coulson says. “Does she know the source of them?” 

“Very much so,” Steve responds, and leaves it at that. He’s not about to besmirch Pierce’s reputation to his boss. And, Coulson is smart enough to figure out the rest of it from the fact that Steve and Peggy can’t do anything about it. Why wouldn’t Peggy report up to a higher authority? One reason: if the authority was the problem. 

Coulson pauses again, before he looks decidedly pleased. Steve feels like he’s switched roles in this conversation, now being the one who is confused. “Well, SHIELD and SWORD have had professors transfer from one location to the other, if problems arise in one location.” 

Those words don’t leave Steve for a long time, not even after he gets back home. Not even as he helps everyone decorate and arrange the house just as Lena wants it. Not even as they cook and bake the time away. Not even as he’s wishing his mother, Sam, and Riley a safe rest of the day as they leave. 

“Hey, you okay?” Lena asks him when everything is perfect to her liking and she starts to notice people again. 

“Me?” he asks. 

“I don’t know, you’re jumpy,” she tells him, frowning. “Like something’s super wrong.” 

“If something was super wrong,” Steve says reassuringly, like a liar in the vein of John Mulaney, “You would know.” 

“Okay,” she says, and someone rings the doorbell just as Lena’s last oven timer goes off. Steve’s saved, thank god. He opens the door, to see Laya and... is that Kamala? Kamala Khan? Steve has a brief moment of horror wash over him. He freezes at the door the same time that Kamala does, until he’s broken out of it by both Laya and Lena’s voices. 

“Hey Steve, this my cousin-sister, Kamala,” Laya says just as Lena yells, “Who is it?” 

“Lena ran to the kitchen,” he tells Laya, letting her in, smiling. “And uh, don’t mention the note on her back. Lena’s mother and I have a bet running on how long it’ll take her to notice.” 

Laya narrows her eyes. “Only if I get half of whatever you win.” 

“I’m not sure anyone would appreciate you driving my motorcycle,” Steve says, and she makes a face at him, disappearing into the house. He refocuses his attention back to Kamala, who looks shocked to high hell. And for very good reason; he’s still unbelieving of it all. 

“Dr. Rogers?” Kamala asks, snapping back to reality. “Oh my god, I—this is—I don’t even—how are you doing?” 

“Good, thanks,” Steve says, feeling a lot like a spy when their cover is blown. Not that this is a life or death situation. He’s just dramatic. “You know, all your stories about your family make a lot more sense now. But I thought you were from Jersey?” 

“My aunt and uncle live here,” she explains. “What—I was going to ask what you were doing here but that seems counterintuitive now. Fuck, you _are _the Steve from Laya’s stories. I’m so sorry, this is awkward. There’s betting pools about your life and now I kind of—shouldn’t have said that either.” 

Steve rolls his eyes. “I know about the betting pools,” he tells her, trying to ease her awkwardness. He remembers running into his professors outside of university and wishing he could crawl into a hole. Especially the professors he still had. “Just—don’t tell anyone?” 

“I won’t, I won’t,” Kamala says, before groaning. “I may or may not have to pull out of said betting pools, though.” 

“Oh?” Steve asks. “What did you have your money on?” 

“To be honest, I just thought it was funny that Laya’s best friend’s father had a teaching job and I based my entire bet on what I’ve heard of you from Laya. Down to the secret daughter and wife,” Kamala says and things click into place. Kamala’s the favorite cousin, the one that Laya talks about like an older sister. The one that Lena’s talked to before, as well. 

“Ah,” he flounders, “I’m not married?” 

“Oh! Sorry, I thought—” Kamala apologizes, before her phone buzzes. Steve is surprised. He didn’t think anyone had their phone off of silent if they were below his age. She picks it up and says something about being ‘there in five minutes’ and then something having to drop her cousin off. Thankfully, Kamala doesn’t mention where she’s at. 

She hangs up right after, and then flounders. Like maybe she’s outstayed her welcome on his front step, or that she really has to go but maybe it would be awkward to just go. 

“Was that America Chavez?” Steve asks gently, clearing his throat when she doesn’t say anything. 

“Yeah, she was just asking where I was,” Kamala shrugs, before switching conversations completely. “Can I ask you something?” Steve noncommittal gestures, as if to tell her to go ahead. “Why don’t you ever bring your daughter to any of the SHIELD games or shows? Plenty of other professors do, especially since they’re free for you guys.” 

He hears the question she isn’t asking. _How come no one knows? _“I like my private life,” he says, answering the silent question. “And everyone at SHIELD is already too nosy as is. But even if I did reserve a ticket for her, she wouldn’t come. Too busy.” 

“Damn,” Kamala says. “Alright, I have to go before Kate calls. It was nice talking to you, Dr. Rogers. See you!” 

He watches her go, and then watches as someone’s motorcycle pulls up into the driveway. Amused, he watches the motorcycle rider give a half-sided hug to Kamala, before she drives away. He now knows who this is, and wonders why they arrived separately. 

“Hey,” Steve says, holding the door open as he steps back inside. 

“Dr. Rogers,” they say, surprised. “Uh, hi.” 

“Come in, you don’t have to stand there,” Steve says, waiting for him to come in and then shutting the door behind them. “And please call me Steve. No one needs to remind me of the time I lost earning that degree.” 

“Sure... Steve,” Laya’s brother, Lehan, stammers out. Steve feels a little bad, mainly because Laya’s brother seems to think Steve is the scary parent. He really isn’t. If he was, Lena wouldn’t get up to half the stuff she does now—even if they’re all good in the end and everyone loves her. 

“Dad, can you close the door? All the cold air is tracking in. And please let Kamala go,” Lena yells from the kitchen. 

Steve shrugs and leads Lehan into the kitchen. “Look who the cold air brought in. I’m going to be upstairs, just yell if you need me, okay?” He rolls his eyes and goes up, knocking on the door of Peggy and Angie’s guest room. 

“What do you want?” Peggy snaps, opening the door. She looks half-weary, and Angie, sitting in the bed, looks about the same. Steve can clearly recognize that he’s come at a bad time. Maybe he can just... leave. He was going to tell Peggy to ease up on Lehan, but now isn’t a good time. “Sorry, I didn’t that mean that. What do you want?” 

“I... don’t remember. Party started downstairs, feel free to go downstairs or not. They’re sick of me, but Lena’s been hyping you up for years, both of you, so. Yeah. If you’re not going to go downstairs, I’d suggest taking a look at your résumes,” Steve says, peeking out of the room before Peggy pulls him in and shuts the door. 

“What?!” she asks, looking back to Angie, who is equally startled. “Steve, you didn’t.” 

“You’re right,” he says, “I didn’t.” 

“Peggy told me,” Angie cuts in, shooting both of them dark looks. “And I’m telling you right now that if you got involved without asking either of us, I’m going to castrate you.” Out of all the times that Angie had threatened him the same thing, she looked closer to meaning it now. Thank god he wasn’t stupid earlier by naming names and really getting involved. 

Steve holds his hands up. “I didn’t do anything,” he repeats. “I asked my Dean what would and wouldn’t be reasons to deny someone tenure at here and SWORD. They’re the same, by the way, for both places. Said I was concerned about my personal life having an effect on my professional reputation, and how much SHIELD specifically took stock into that.” 

“Steve,” Peggy hisses. “You might as well have—” 

“He doesn’t know about either of you,” Steve says. “But I found out that professors usually switch from SWORD to SHIELD, and that SHIELD almost always takes professors who decide to switch from SWORD. SWORD, on the other hand, gets a rare transfer request, if any. And, get this—Coulson doesn’t like Pierce, and he knows something that the rest of us don’t.” 

“We have to teach this semester; classes have already been scheduled,” Angie slowly says. She looks over to Peggy, and that’s when Steve knows he should probably take the hint and leave. So he does, and holes up in his room, deciding that now was a better time than any to take a look at his email. 

Half of it is spam, and that half Steve deletes with relish. The other half is filled with emails from students or institutions interested in his doctorate. He pauses when he sees the Smithsonian pop up again, or more rather the name of its director. Gingerly, he clicks on it, almost afraid to shake the dream he was staring at. 

It’s an offer. A fulltime position to be a curator and to do whatever the fuck he wants in the time he gets between exhibits or ideas in terms of research. Steve’s heart misses a beat and has to stop himself from doing anything but flagging the email and getting out of it as fast as possible. He closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe properly. 

The thing was, Steve had helped out an exhibit a few years ago, and had inadvertently impressed a lot of the people who ran or sponsored the various museums and branches of the Smithsonian. They had told him that they would offer a proper job down the line, when the spot opened. But it has been hears since, and Steve really didn’t care too much. At the time, Steve was still green at being a professor, and now he pretty much loves most of his job. 

But it’s the Smithsonian. Steve’s pretty much in shock. Him? He knows he’ll turn it down, no matter how much it would be fun to say yes and throw all caution to the wind, but he can’t afford to do any of that. He can’t move, or give up his current job, not when he’s worked this hard to be incredibly close to tenure. He’ll just... not tell anyone. And in the meantime, Steve will just move on from the offer until he’s in the right headspace to deny it. No problem. 

His phone buzzes from his side, making the thought process change easier. He takes one look at the caller and leaves the phone on speakerphone. 

“What do you want?” Steve asks, praying his voice doesn’t sound like it’s run the marathon his heart thinks he’s running. 

Tony sighs loudly on the other end. “I don’t know what I’ve done to you to make you be this mean to me. Just wanted to make sure we were on for tomorrow.” 

“Yes, I’m still coming, same as every year,” Steve says exasperatedly, though he likes the disruption. He also can’t help but smile a little at Tony’s wording, like they were meeting for drinks instead of going back to work. 

A pause, and then Tony says, “You know, a little birdie told me you dropped down to Coulson’s today.” 

_A little birdie_? Steve decides its not worth the time or anger to try and figure out who it may be. Or which one of them it may be. “Okay,” he says. 

“And?” Tony asks, slightly concerned. 

“And that’s all there is to it,” Steve simply says, hoping Tony will take the hint for once in their lives. 

“Sure about that?” Tony presses. 

“I was there,” Steve says dryly, “I’m sure. And no, before you ask, Coulson did not call me down, nor am I in trouble.” He imagines Tony pouting on the other end at having stolen the question. 

“You know what, maybe I’ll just grill you tomorrow night,” Tony says. Steve laughs and hangs up on him without a second thought. He’ll probably forget about it by the time tomorrow rolls around. 

Tomorrow night, as it turns out, comes far too fast for Steve. He blinks, and suddenly a good twenty-one or twenty-three hours have passed. Suddenly, he’s gone from staring at his computer to staring at himself. 

Steve gives himself the once over in the mirror—a navy blue button-up that’s a tried-and-true classic, dark jeans, the expensive navy leather and rose gold watch that Tony once gave him as a gift, and the most comfortable and well kept pair of Oxfords he owns currently—making sure that nothing clashes or fits weird. They don’t, and Steve’s hair and beard are living their best conditioned life right now. So he heads downstairs and sees Sam already waiting for him. Steve’s not surprised; out of the two of them, Sam had always cleaned up better and faster than he did. 

“What took you so long?” Sam asks, a question that’s the first half of a well-worn exchange. Both of them know the true answer to his question, and what Steve’s answer will be. 

“My eyebrows,” Steve says, grabbing a set of the house keys and looking around for Sam’s car keys. He doesn’t have to search for long, because Sam dangles and shakes his car keys right in Steve’s face with a shit-eating smile. “Asshole.” 

“Drunk Sam might trust you with the car but Sober Sam won’t,” is all Sam says as he slips out the door and goes to pull his car from the inside of Steve’s garage. It’ll take a few minutes, so in the meantime Steve runs down his mental checklist. 

Lena and his ma are out visiting one of his ma’s friends up in Albany and won’t be back until nearly nine. Riley, Peggy, and Angie are all out shopping in Manhattan, and won’t be back until midnight. Sam and him are either coming back at ten, or next morning depending on the whims of Tony. Or, if they’re coming back at ten, they’re bringing Tony back with them.

Steve exhales once in and once out, before walking out the door and carefully locking it behind him. He turns around and shoves his keys into his pocket and Sam’s already out onto the road, expecting Steve to pop in. So he does, admiring Sam’s car not for the first or last time in his life. The inside is leather and wood and it has enough legroom to accommodate Steve’s legs. It has a sun roof and everything, which Steve may or may not have stuck his head out from once when they were on the highway and no one was around. He’s 35, and probably less mature then Lena but it’s fine. It’s fine. 

“Why do you have Waze out?” Steve asks, appalled as he clicks his seatbelt. “I can give you those directions half-blind or in my sleep!” He actually has given directions to SHIELD once in his sleep; Lena has part of it recorded on her phone because she had thought he was losing his mind on the couch when in reality he had been having a too realistic dream. 

“Because you’re going to tell me what I need to know for this party and I know for a fact you can’t give directions without your full attention on it,” Sam says very pointedly, in reference to that one time in high school when Sam and Steve were driving to D.C. in Sam’s mom’s car and they missed an exit because Steve saw a sign for something that he can’t remember now. Sam still won’t let him live that down. 

Steve smirks, because the people he works with are bloodthirsty, nosy sharks who had to be who they were to land a spot at SHIELD in the first place. “If you’ve ever thought that Tony was nosy, then everyone will eat you alive there, Sam. Anyone with red hair can and will find out your entire life story if you so much as blink at them wrong. Especially if they are people named Grey, Potts, or Romanoff. Assume anyone teaching philosophy or psychology can read your mind, like Xavier or Grey again. If Chancellor Fury talks to you, talk back but never, ever ask about his family, especially his grandfather. Don’t make fun of Dean Coulson when he invariably will come to talk to me. Provost Hill and I are somehow friends—but take note that she is a very, very scary woman and tougher than Peggy. When she corners you and I’m not there, call her exactly what she tells you to call her, and do not ask how she knows anything about you or me. Hill, Fury, and Tony are the only three people at SHIELD who know about Lena, so if she ever asks about Lena, just roll with it. If you’re ever going to talk about the fact you were Air Force, don’t let yourself get drunk enough that Carol Danvers and the rest of the soldier-turned-scholar population of SHIELD staff corner you and rope you into the military branch argument. No matter what your answer is, you will alienate at least half of the people there. But do talk to Carol Danvers; she was Air Force too. If you let that slip to anyone, be prepared to deal with it. Also, assume anything you say to one person will be shared with everyone in that room.” 

“Wow,” Sam says, glancing at Steve with a raised eyebrow. “What the fuck, man, I feel like I’m back doing intelligence work and learning the customs of another culture.” 

Steve shrugs, though Sam can’t see him because Sam’s eyes are in the roads. Well. it isn’t as if Sam can’t hear the implied shrug anyway. “There’s a lot more, but you're pretty good at people and puzzling them out. It is another culture; a culture of academia.” 

Sam huffs a laugh. “And do I ever talk about myself or is that going to be a social no-no in SHIELD-ia?” 

“Sam,” Steve says with a dramatic pause, “Feel free to say whatever the fuck you want about yourself. You know those saintly, modest people at every gathering who casually did charity work in Kenya and had tea with the queen?”

“I am not being that person,” Sam immediately interjects, knowing what Steve’s about to say. 

“Be that person,” Steve says, laughter behind his words because he really wants to see that happening. Sam’s done a metric shit ton of Good Deeds in his life, which also includes the current VA counselor side ‘job’ (it’s not a real job because Sam refuses the money each and every time the office tries to pay him) he does in addition to his normal well-paying therapist gig. “Come on Sam. You have to.” 

“_Steve_,” Sam sighs long-sufferingly, the same way he does whenever Steve has a good idea. “I am not trolling your coworkers.” He glances at Steve with his Look Of Thou Shall Not Be Stupid, which dissolves into shock in a second. 

“What?” Steve asks as Sam remembers to stop at the red light in front of them. With a very visible effort, Sam peels his eyes away from Steve and looks out to the road again. 

“You left your piercings in,” Sam says, gesturing to his right ear with his right hand in the few seconds where the light is still red. Luckily, since it’s only them here, the light turns green quickly (almost a myth) and Waze cheerfully informs Sam of the next turn approaching soon. 

Steve’s hand reaches up to his right ear, where there are, indeed, his three rose gold helix ring piercings. He stills in horror, because he had forgotten to take them out and drop them in treated water. Shit, now he can’t take them out; the next time he puts them in, his ear will undoubtedly become infected. Shit, shit, shit. 

He’s had them for nearly half of his life, longer than he’s had anyone of his tattoos or the other piercing. Which means he’s definitely had them long enough that he can take them out and out them in to his discretion without worrying about healed cartilage. Since wearing them would mean too much of the wrong attention and reputation at SHIELD, he usually takes them out before going to work and puts them in when he comes back. He’s considered letting the piercings close over before, but he’s grown far too accustomed to his look with them in rather than them out.

_(But he isn’t ashamed of them. Here’s the thing: Steve has a valid reason for every single thing he’s done to himself. Everything from the column of [Peruvian lilies](https://www.theflowerexpert.com/media/images/mostpopularflowers/morepopularflowers/alstroemeria/alstro2.jpg) he has inked up his spinal cord—where each flower is for a different person that he loves—to the thin string of dates he carries across his sternum that fill out the outline of a shape of an unfinished [dove](https://sulimanalomran.com/images/christmas-dove-clipart-11.png)—including his dad’s death date, the day of ma’s cancer diagnosis, the final day of her treatment, the day of his first diagnosis, the first and last days of the final experimental procedure that Steve had undergone, Lena’s birth, the day Sam and Riley came back from their final tour, and the day Steve had gotten his PhD—mean something to him. Everything that covers his back especially, and the dove on his chest mean the absolute world to him, even if they might not look like anything rather than an aesthetic collection at first glance. _Of_ _course_ everything on him looks nice, since there’s no point in having an art degree and reasonable artistic flair if he can’t put it to work where it counts the most. _Of_ _course_ he’s made it seem to the casual stranger who might see him naked that he’s a pretty guy with prettier tattoos—Tony’s words, not his._

_He doesn’t show them because they’re too personal and because most of them are located in places that would make it hard to show off when he’s wearing formal clothing in a formal setting. Which might be the reason why he picked said places, because of the personal part again, but it’s fine. He also doesn’t show them because Steve knows the power of having a pristine clean reputation, whether that be personal appearance or personal conduct. Hell, personal appearance weighs more than actual personal conduct in this fucked-up world. _

_That goes for the piercings. At least those are easier now, since they’ve healed for long enough. _

_Having been dealt all the bad cards at start—poor, too sick, too weak, too interested in the wrong things—Steve knows what his childhood records looked like. He knows the exact way he had been treated at NYCMA when he had been both small and tall. Appearances are everything, and that means being an untouchable, perfect human being if he’s to have everyone overlook the fact that he’s young and coming from out of nowhere. So be it if he has to live a lie half the time. So. Be. It. _

_That doesn’t mean he can live with it all the time: the image of a Boy Scout, corn-fed Iowa/Nebraska farm boy in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere (no offense to those who are just that, but it’s not him). So when he comes home, it’s gone, the mask and image are shed the second he steps inside his door. Here, he’s Steve Rogers, not Dr. Rogers or Professor Rogers or god forbid, Dr. Steven G. Rogers where no one knows what the initial stands for. No ‘impressive’ historical analyses to his name, no curated Smithsonian exhibits to his name, no artistic accolades to his name, and no papers or doctoral works to his name. _

_Some days he wonders why he fought so hard to get a PhD and end up teaching others about WWII, early and mid-20th century art history, and also specifically: art movements during the Second World War. He’s one of those professors that technically transcend departments (Humanities and Arts) because of what their focus in studies were—which is rare but he doesn’t particularly care because guess what; he made it anyway—but it’s not really his fault he decided to focus on the art scene during the 1930s-1940s and loved everything else that filled in the cracks and the background. _

_Those days are either the days when he’s either dealt with a class who is filled with too many students wishing to check off a distribution requirement—which is a fancier term for gen-ed class at liberal arts colleges—on their list, or when he wishes terribly hard that he knows some trade or profession where reputations don’t precede intelligence. But then again, sometimes reputations are good things to balance because then people know who are crackpots and who aren’t.)_

“I can hear you freaking out,” Sam chastises, over Waze’s voice of another turn in 0.3 miles, which Steve has never understood. Why 0.3 and not a quarter of a mile? It’s weird, but before Steve can think about it, Sam adds, “At least they match your watch, and it’s not like you forgot to put a shirt on.” 

Steve laughs, but it’s a little weaker than normal. “Kinda hard to forget a shirt,” he says. 

“That’s not what you told me eleven years ago. Everybody on base saw your abs and said they were lickable, motherfucker. It was like incest, hearing that, and people didn’t stop even after I told them you were like my brother,” Sam retorts, apparently still not over the incident. 

“Turn left,” Waze says, when there is no left. There is no right, either. It’s just driving straight until you see the giant SHIELD sign greeting you. Which Sam doesn’t know, so he shushes Steve right before Steve can say anything else. 

“What the fuck?” Sam asks quietly. “_Waze_. You didn’t. Not you too.” He sounds too disappointed for Steve not to laugh. 

“Just keep going,” Steve says, snickering to himself. “It’s all clear skies from here.” 

“I can see that, _Steve_,” Sam responds, still sounding very sad about Waze’s betrayal. Steve wonders how long Sam has placed his faith in Waze. “Now let me have my moment of mourning in peace. I can still hear your thoughts.” 

“My piercing crisis is bigger than your _Waze_ crisis,” Steve says, without any heat. He’s still panicking, but Sam radiates Calm™️ like the true therapist he is, and Steve’s already coming up plans to hide in darker areas where no one’s paying attention to him. Except that he brought Sam, so everyone will be paying attention to him. Fuck. Fuck. _Shit_.

“You can’t compare other people’s problems to yours. Everyone has their own levels of handling grief and crisis,” Sam parrots to him, glancing between the road and Waze, who seems to be doing fine now. Since it’s all one straight road. 

Soon enough, the sign pops up and Sam scoffs at it, mumbling something about pretentiousness. 

“What was that?” Steve asks innocently, “I couldn’t hear you.” 

“You’re a pretentious bastard and this place suits your perfectly. Are you sure there’s going to be alcohol here? And not just the frou-frou artisanal shit,” Sam says, though he really doesn’t mind the so-called artisanal drinks. Sam will try anything once, and artisanal drinks are something Sam will individually try once and declare himself good for. 

“I’m sure,” Steve grins thinking back to last year. “I am definitely sure.” 

Sam drives into one of the campus lots and parks in one go. Steve remembers the days when parking has been a two-person job where the second person would frantically be the eyes of all directions. He’s is extremely thankful those days are over and that he drives a motorcycle five out of seven days. Parking is awful in SHIELD if you’re late or even not early. 

“Anything else I should know?” Sam asks as they’re walking into the transformed staff party area, or Lehigh Hall. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, “I haven’t told anyone _you_ would be coming. That includes Tony.” 

“I didn’t know I was coming until yesterday,” Sam says, “Why would you be telling people about that?” 

Steve doesn’t answer; Sam will find out soon enough what happens to Steve at these parties anyway. Somehow (Tony), Steve’s RSVP to this party will always say yes to both attendance and a +1. In the previous years, Steve conveniently didn’t know that his invitation had said yes until people had asked him where his +1 was. Year after year, Steve had been forced to shrug and say that maybe the wrong box had been checked off, and year after year, Tony nearly almost got murdered in Steve’s hands. Actually, Steve’s mythical invitations have never touched his hands, because they seem to always touch Tony’s hand first. Steve doesn’t even know if the invitations are paper or digital.

Both Steve and Sam shrug off their coats in the helpful coat closet, and then Steve leads Sam into the main room of the hall.

They walk in and Sam immediately turns on Steve, accusing. “You bastard liar. What the fuck is this? This isn’t a staff party; this is full on out near-black tie status!” 

Steve looks at Sam, unimpressed. “You’re wearing a nice suit that’s probably tailored by somebody your mother knows. You’re wearing cufflinks that have little falcons engraved in them. You’re wearing shoes polished enough that if I even do so much as look at them, I can see my helix rings. You’re wearing a fancy watch that Tony also got you one year. Tell me, Sam, where do you not fit in here?” 

“What about you?” Sam asks, gesturing to Steve’s lack of suit attire. 

He smirks, settling into a too-confident and self-assured person that sure as hell isn't him, but is technically him at work. Steve also picks up the slow pace a little. Sam, immediately spotting the façade and the bolstered personality Steve’s putting on, doesn’t hesitate to fall in stride, and Steve smiles at him, thankful for Sam not calling him out on it.

“They’re used to it. Everyone knows that suits are for Dr. Rogers during office and teaching hours,” Steve says, fixing up his voice to ditch the British accent, and then nodding a hello at Chancellor Fury—who looks the most surprised Steve’s ever seen him, and that look is going straight to Sam.

“But you have so many of them. You’re lucky I decided to show up like this,” Sam says, leaning in to whisper the words into Steve’s ear so that they aren’t broadcasted publicly. “Otherwise I would have looked like a fool all thanks to you.” 

“Please,” Steve whispers back, with a grin on his face that’s mostly obscured by his hand that covers him talking in Sam’s ear. “As if you wouldn’t have resisted showing me up.” 

Sam rolls his eyes good-naturedly, but says, “You are a real asshole, you know that? Banking on my competitiveness.” 

Steve’s about to fire off a reply, but sees about ten different people coming to swarm him, including Tony. He decides to head over to Tony first, and let Sam be exposed to Professor Tony Stark before he meets anyone else. Just because he’s a little bit of an asshole, Steve wants to see if Sam will roll with this slightly different version of Tony. 

“Sam, my man, what a surprise to see you here!” Tony grins cheerfully, pulling Sam in for a hug that was initially disguised as a friendly handshake. When Tony lets go of Sam, he looks directly at Steve and says, “I didn’t think Steve was going to convince you to come.” Tony looks like he’s about to ask Steve a million questions that Steve’s not going to answer. 

“I decided to see Steve’s yearly small staff party for myself last minute,” Sam says, picking up Tony’s very pointed question. “He didn’t tell me that his definition of small staff parties look like this. I’m surprised he could bring me here like this without prior notice.” 

Steve decides to jump in here, because he can’t resist. “Yeah,” he agrees, “I’m just so glad that people seem to think I’ll always bring someone and have made the appropriate reservations. Right?” 

Tony glares at him. Sam takes one look at Tony’s face and the smug look that Steve has no doubt he has right now, and does a double take. “No you didn’t,” Sam says, his glee trying its best to stay hidden. “_Tony_. That’s—_Steve_—is that why...” Sam starts laughing at the frown starting to replace Steve’s smugness. 

“Every year,” Steve sighs when Tony’s the one to look validated as Sam still snickers. “Every single year everyone thinks I’m a lonely sad man with Tony as my only solace. As if. Do lonely sad men look as good as I do? No, I bet they don’t.” 

Sam pats his shoulder consolingly, mocking him still. “You’re one word away from ranting like an _old_, lonely, and sad man, Steve, it’s okay.” Then he turns to Tony and says, “And to think that I almost believed him when he said that he was just bored and needed someone else there.”

“I’m offended,” Tony says in the driest, most monotonous voice Steve’s ever heard him use. “_Steve_! What, am I just chopped liver here? Playing second fiddle? You know what, I’m rescinding my friendship to you; we’re breaking up.” Ah, there was the dramatics that Steve had almost missed. Almost. 

“Good riddance,” says Natasha Romanoff as she sweeps right into the middle of their conversation with a blinding bright smile on her face. “Maybe for once Lang and Peña will win that useless award. They’re better anyways.” 

Steve leans over to Sam and whispers, “Do you see the two guys by the chocolate fountain who are glaring at the smoothie machine over by Chancellor Fury? Lang is the one that looks like he was the guy on F.R.I.E.N.D.S near the end.” He then nods as Sam glances over to Scott and Luis and looks to Steve in question. 

“How tight are we talking?” Sam asks Steve, as Tony and Natasha Romanoff engage in a battle of words where both of them simultaneously lose and win. 

Steve crosses his right index and pointer finger and then says, “Like you and me, pretty sure.” When Sam gives him the _I-Have-Been-Almost-Arrested-For-Civil-Disobedience-With-You-And-Bailed-You-Out-Of-Jail-Too-Many-Times-Thank-God-Your-Mom-Knows-And-Bribes-NYPD _look that Steve has gotten too many times in his life for him not to name, Steve grins and says, “Yeah, I know.” 

Sam whistles low. “Which one’s you and which one’s me?” 

Steve thinks about it, and realizes that from the years he’s known the two of them (Luis and Scott), there’s no answer to that. “They’re both on the me end of the spectrum, if you have to look at it like that.” 

Sam looks troubled, glances over to both of the professors again. “Then who bails them out?” 

“Dr. van Dyne,” Steve responds easily, “The younger one. Her name is Hope, and neither she nor her parents are here yet. They will be. And then you can see Tony try to charm Hope while simultaneously having a pissing contest with her father.” 

He’s about to say more, except that Romanoff and Tony have given up on their backhanded compliments and Steve knows that he’s about to come under fire. Just based on the look on her face, he know she’s about to be in for it. Whatever _it_ is. 

“So Rogers,” she says conversationally, her pleasantly fake smile grating on his nervousness. Her eyes size up Sam appraisingly. “Who’s tall, dark, and handsome?” 

“Sam Wilson,” Sam says himself, extending a hand out to her, “And you are?” 

“Natalia Romanova,” she says, in what Steve guesses is the correct and original Russian form of her name. She takes his hand and raises an eyebrow when Sam doesn’t show a hint of surprise at her strong grip. Romanoff doesn’t say anything about it, but Steve knows that she’s made a note of it. “Call me Natasha. I’ve never heard about you.” 

Sam looks to Steve knowingly and smiles wider. Steve has the sinking suspicion that Sam’s about to reveal one of the two embarrassing stories Steve previously allowed him to leak as a condition to make Sam come here. “I’m not even surprised. Stevie’s really bad at talking about the people he works with. I guess it makes sense it goes both ways.” 

“_Sam_,” Steve hisses, because he really didn’t imagine that the stupid nickname would be one of the two. Fuck, fuck, shit. 

Sam, the asshole, look at him innocently and then quickly finger spells the word one at him, because signing the number makes it all the more obvious. One in sign is literally holding your pointer finger up. He shrugs. 

“One?” Natasha asks, looking at Steve. But she blinks twice, and he realizes with a sudden horror that she’s noticed his ear. The rings are probably glinting in this light. “Steve Rogers,” she says with triumph in her voice. “When did you get those?” 

He smirks, suppressing all feelings of panic. “Natasha Romanoff. When did you get yours?” She won’t answer; he knows that much. She’s probably even wondering which piercings of hers that he’s talking about. Most people don’t get their lobes and upper lobes done at the same time. Or even their flats. 

She smiles, and in a perfectly orchestrated move, Clint Barton comes to join them. He has a new bandage on his nose. Steve wonders how and why this time around, and then sees Sam grin at the hawks on Clint’s bandaid. 

“Hey man,” Clint says, “Nice links.” He gestures at his own cuffs, which are link-less but the sentiment remains the same.

“Thanks,” Sam says, pleased. “Glad to see someone appreciates them, _Steve_. Nice hawks.” 

“I technically bought them for you!” Steve protests, because technically they had been part of Sam’s birthday present from him and Lena the year that Sam came back from the Air Force. Technically, they had been her idea, but it wasn’t like Sam could correct him in that. “I don’t know what you’re implying.” 

Natasha watches the two of them, amused, but also with a degree of analysis. Almost like she’s trying figure out who he is. 

“Whoa,” Clint says, “Those are nice. They hurt?” This time, he gestures to his ear, which currently had a hearing aid in but that is also not the point. “They match your watch, weirdly. It’s cool.” 

Steve shrugs, not about to say anything. Clint takes it in stride, but Steve’s sure that Clint’s bird-like eyes can probably see that his rings aren’t exactly new or something and determine just how old they are. It’s almost freaky how he does that. 

“What is cool?” Wanda Maximoff asks, also quietly entering her way into this conversation. It’s almost like people have given up on pretending to eavesdrop. No one’s ashamed of it anymore. It’s fine, whatever. At least Wanda is okay, even if she does teach criminology and psychology. “Oh Dr. Rogers, your helix! They are cute.” 

“Thanks,” he says. Steve tries to subtly look around to room to find an out of this conversation. He finds it in the form of Dean Coulson and had never been more thankful for the man’s existence. Minus yesterday. “I think Dean Coulson’s calling me.” At least the good part of this is that the man _is_. 

He walks to the Dean, Sam right behind him, and greets him with a smile and a polite hello. Steve wonders why people are so happy to see each other on this night when they’ve all seen each other’s less than three days ago. But it’s no matter. 

“Nice to see that Stark hasn’t lied on your RSVP this year again,” Coulson says, nodding to Sam. “Nice to meet you...”

“I’m Samuel Wilson. Please call me Sam,” he says. 

“Ah,” Coulson says, “Dr. Rogers mentioned you a few times. Do you also teach?” 

Sam shakes his head. “I’m actually pursuing my own doctorate right now, so no. I work as mental health counselor both outside and inside the VA. I don’t have the patience to teach.” That’s what Sam says to people, but he’s more of a shrink sometimes. Not that anyone would dare call Sam that within his hearing in fear of a lecture of how shrink is a harmful term to people who work this entire jobs and to people seeking counsel or therapy. 

Coulson looks very impressed. “Well, I’m sure that counseling is not a job for impatient people either, Sam. Certainly not for the weak.” 

“Thank you,” Sam says, though his smile is a little tight around the edges. “I don’t think being a Dean is a position for impatient people either. I mean, dealing with Steve is enough, but a whole department of Steves would be hell.” 

Coulson is taken aback. “Well, Dr. Rogers doesn’t—really? I would be thrilled to deal with a department of exemplar professors. SHIELD has had its share of unfortunate hires and once-promising professors, but certainly not Dr. Rogers.” 

“Thank you,” Steve says, knowing he’ll never live this down from Sam after, despite warning him. 

“And—” Coulson starts to say, before he stops mid-sentence. Steve knows exactly why. In the span of two days, he’s shocked Coulson thrice, which might be a bad record. Sam just looks amused. “Oh.”

But Steve does have to give credit to Coulson, who composes himself quickly and says, “Anyways, it was very nice to have met you Sam; I won’t keep either of you from socializing with everyone else.” Steve makes a mental bet with himself that Coulson heads to either Melinda May or Chancellor Fury. He ends up winning; Coulson walks to May. 

Sam turns to him and says, “He really does like you. Huh. How on Earth did you manage that?” 

Steve gives him an award winning smile and says, “I haven’t the faintest idea. It’s almost like I can manage to not be a disaster human being in front of some people. It’s also almost like I’m really smart.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah, and the Air Force suck.” 

“Rogers!” Steve hears a very offended, very angry Carol Danvers shriek his name. He turns in the direction of the voice and sees her storming up to them. Oh Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, grant him the strength to let him get through this. 

“I cannot believe your friend’s audacity to say that the Air Force suck. Who are you?” she demands, sizing Sam up with a glare in her eyes. “You better not have been army, I swear on Rogers’s gossip-worthy ear piercings.” 

“Air Force?” Sam asks with interest, as if Steve hadn’t literally told him about Danvers ten minutes ago. 

“You better believe it,” she brusquely responds. “Listen, Barnes and Dugan and Morita might take your Army-sympathizing, but I’m just saying, you don’t shit talk USAF.” She gives Sam a tough look. 

“Wait, no,” Sam says, blinking twice in surprise, as if this conversation has lost him. “I was Air Force. USAF Pararescue. PJ. I’m not dissing anything. Wait. I feel like I’ve seen your picture somewhere. You’re Captain Marvel.” 

“Were,” she corrected sternly, but her entire demeanor shifts. She’s a lot more friendly and a lot less angry, thank goodness. Danvers is a force to be reckoned with whenever she’s angry; and someone to always stay on the good side of, not that it takes effort to reach the good side. “Pararescue but you know my nickname. Why do I have the feeling you’re a classified man?” 

“Nothing classified about me,” Sam lies, straight through his teeth. But Danvers, with her former Captain status, probably still doesn’t have the classification to figure that out. “I’m Sam Wilson, retired Master Sergeant, nothing more.” 

She grins, but doesn’t press any further. “I like him a lot better than you,” she tells Steve point-blank. “How come you haven’t brought him here before?” 

Steve sighs. “Do you know how much persuading I had to do to myself to come here?” 

“Let’s see,” she says. “No tux, hipster piercings, cool +1 who put in the effort you didn’t, I think I have a guess. By the way, I’m borrowing him. I need to make a point.” 

“Don’t drink anything she gives you,” is the only thing Steve says to Sam, and he walks away from the two of them, listening to Danvers’s huff of protest. Steve had already guessed that this was going to happen, and that there was no point trying to convince Sam to not ditch him for a while. It wasn’t also like he was going to be Sam’s keeper or something. 

“Where are you going?” Tony asks, stepping into Steve’s line of sight and walking right alongside him. Steve decides to keep walking, since Tony seems content to follow. “Sam ditch you that fast?” 

“What if I ditched him?” Steve counters, not appreciating the insinuation. He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks down. “I could be going out for a breathe of fresh air.” 

“You’re still panicking, aren’t you?” Tony says as they walk towards the coat closet. Well, as Steve walks towards the coat closet and Tony follows just a step behind to gauge Steve. “Steve. I know you and I know the face you made when Romanoff pointed them out. You forgot, didn’t you?” 

“It’s stupid. They’re stupid,” Steve says, wondering why he keeps panicking even though he rationally knows it’s not a big deal. It’s not; it’s really not, and it’s something harmless enough that it should be fine. Except that it may not be. “I know.” 

“Steve,” Tony says, more urgently and in a way that makes Steve spin around to see him. “You’re panicking. Breathe.” 

“I—This is so stupid; I work with all these people. I see them every day and I’m panicking for no reason...” Steve says, trailing off as he tries to keep himself breathing and not panicking. “I’m a grown-ass man, I can’t just worry about something like this!” 

“Not like being a grown man has stopped you from doing a bunch of other things,” Sam jokes, apparently having ditched Carol and the Air Force gang for Steve. It’s reassuring, but also concerning that Sam noticed he left. Even more concerning is the fact that Sam doesn’t look like he’s going to let this slide. 

“Tell me I’m being stupid,” Steve asks, no, _orders_. “Tell me I’m worrying over nothing.” 

Sam crosses his arms over his chest and looks Steve in the eye. He’s thoroughly unimpressed, and Steve’s fairly sure that Sam’s going to go on a tangent on how he will not because those are destructive words. But instead he says, “You’re being stupid.” 

Tony gapes, not prepared to hear that at all. Steve huffs a laugh, but he keeps counting in his head to keep himself breathing, and currently the number is well into the two-hundreds. He doesn’t say anything, knowing that the set of Sam’s jaw means more is coming. 

“Did that help?” Sam asks, clearing his throat when Steve looks anywhere that isn’t Sam. Steve looks back at Sam, almost guiltily if he hadn’t been immune at this point, but doesn’t say anything. Sam continues and says, “Didn’t think so. If it’s really bothering you—” 

“I’m—I’m going to go,” Tony interjects, gesturing over back to the main hall and leaving in the most unsubtle way possible. “Okay? I’ll see you later? Okay.” 

Sam turns to watch him go, a faint smile on his face. It disappears just as Tony disappears into the hall again, and Sam turns back to Steve, not happy. “As I was saying,” he says with a roll of his eyes clearly aimed at Tony, “Do you want to go home?” 

“I’m just being irrational,” Steve says with an overblown smile. “So what, right? No one cares.” 

Sam’s face clearly says that he does not agree. Sam himself says as much, and then adds, “Your colleagues, though. Sure to give any sane person a complex. Let me tell you, you couldn’t pay me a million dollars to face that kind of crowd every day. But Steve, you have to remember one thing. This is not the end.” 

“Of what?” Steve asks. 

“I don’t know, what do you think your little college rebellion stunt was the end of?” Sam asks, his tone eerily close to Ma’s. 

Steve pauses. “I’m sorry, did you say _stunt?_” He starts to laugh. Sam had been the first one he had pitched the idea to, and the one who had convinced Steve’s mother that Steve wasn’t doing it out of teenage rebellion but rather careful thinking. “Do I have to remind you just how I got them?” 

Sam doesn’t say anything, but he now looks like what he does when Steve has somehow inadvertently made his point for him. It takes Steve a moment, then two, and then— 

“Oh,” Steve says. Sam’s trying to tell him some bullshit about how Steve had really wanted them and still wants them, to not let them be something to hide. Joke’s on Sam; Steve’s really good at hiding his entire life. “You’re wrong.” 

“Then please tell me how this is going to ruin your life.” So Steve does. Sam doesn’t even do so much as blink out of pattern. “Okay, wow. I’m just going to—hold on. Not to make that thick head of yours any bigger, but do you realize who you are? They’re not going to kick you out for having a sense of aesthetics. Your Dean loves you. Guy who runs this place knows about you and doesn’t bat an eye. Plus, even beyond this school who is going to argue with the guy who casually consults with places like the Henley and the Smithsonian and the MET and god knows what else?” 

“Sam,” Steve says, sighing. 

Sam huffs a laugh. “I can start being mean and talk about your desire to do the best by Lena, or you can nod your head and say, yes Sam, like someone who isn’t confrontational every second.” 

“Yes, Sam,” Steve says, expelling a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. “Whatever you say, Sam.” 

“Now are we leaving, or staying?” 

Steve smiles and leads them back in, just in time for Chancellor Fury to give the annual winter vacation speech that is meant to be a morale booster during the one time of year no one needs it. Strange, but who is he to complain? Speeches mean less time talking and thinking. He’s gotten used to tuning them out extremely well, and joining reality right at the end. Truth be told, maybe he’s picked up this habit from his own days in university, but it’s useful now. 

Danvers comes back, just as they’re all done cheering to another semester over, like a woman determined to win an argument. “Mind if I borrow your date?” she asks, a sharp grin lacing her words. He’s always liked her to-the-point, immovable attitude. 

Steve shrugs, avoiding the slight glance of concern that Sam gives him. “One piece, Danvers,” he says. “Everyone better be in one piece, otherwise I end up having to teach or sub in for one of your friend’s classes again.” 

Carol Danvers laughs at the mental picture of Steve exasperatedly dealing with freshman right after his own class of freshman. Steve hates teaching over-eager, pompous freshman who have been used to success their entire life. There are always a few that get it, but not nearly enough to make up for the overall attitude of freshman classes. She winks and drags Sam away. 

In the same second, Steve spots Dr. Barnes looking at him curiously. Or, as the man had asked a few weeks ago, _Bucky_. Not that Steve has since talked to the other professor since that day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go check out the stucky remix on tumblr! ;)


End file.
